The Warden by Anthony Trollope

This book belonged to my mother. On the first page someone, I’m assuming she, has written her name and “June, 1955.” That’s when she was fifteen years old. I wonder if she ever read this book and if she would remember it. Maybe I’ll show it to her someday and see what her reaction is. The book itself is OK, the only Trollope I have read, who was evidently a prolific and popular writer of the 19th century. It’s a small story about an honorable man accused of dishonorable things and how he and others react to the situation. I won’t read it again, not will I read any more Trollope. At least not until I read everything else I want to read.