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‘Love was windows in rapture at 6 o’clock, when the library closed for the day’, wrote a trying poet upon a tiring time. But even today, around six or a little later while she walks around in an empty office-space of sleeping machines and zealous proofs waiting on the table, to be scrutinized and penned through the next morning, the auburn sun on the wide bookshelves, stacked with Oxford India Paperbacks, convokes her senses to join her for a smile.