He clings to the performance; he reminds himself he is still on stage, that he can't reveal himself, but he can feel his hold on the situation beginning to waver. It's time to drop the pretense, and he wills his hands to keep from shaking.

"But it wasn't far! And I thought you might enjoy -- you look the sort that reads, sir. I have here a nice assortment -- British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War. Something among the lot is bound to strike your interest, and there's a vacancy on your shelf, just there."

He points at a shelf that really isn't lacking any books at all, except it is lacking everything that was his. He's beginning to sweat, he realizes, and the adrenaline floods his system. If only this could stay a performance; if only he could maintain the act, then he might get through this, but in a very few moments he must step off the stage; he isn't sure he's quite ready.