Bocca finds his Kinglake

The following story continues from my post:
http://commenting-the-commentaries.blogspot.com/2006/09/writing-lesson-from-winston-churchill.html
As that post it is taken from Geoffrey Bocca's, “Best Seller : a nostalgic celebration of the less-than-great books you have always been afraid to admit you loved “ in this case pages 20-21.

"I then trundled back to Charing Cross Road. Tremulously, I entered the dustiest secondhand bookshop I could find. The proprietor was sitting alone reading A Rebours by J. K. Huysman. He looked up and raised his glasses to his forehead.
“Would you by any chance have a set of Alexander Kinglake’s nine volume History of the Invasion of Crimea: Its Origins and an Account of Its Progress Down to the Death of Lord Raglan?”
He said, “What?”
I repeated the question in full. He frowned as if he did not know what I was talking about, and said, “I beg your pardon?”
gathering the remains of my breath I said, “Would you have a set of Alexander Kinglake’s nine-volume history of the invasion of Crimea?”
Was I, I wondered about to be the straight man in one of cicilization’s oldest jokes? Was I to turn my back rudely and mutter under my breath as i left, “Go f--- yourself,” giving him the chance to riposte, “aye, and go f--- Alexander Kinglake’s nine volume History of the Invasion of Crimea: Its Origins and an Account of Its Progress Down to the Death of Lord Raglan?”
What the gentleman said was, “You don’t have to raise your voice. I heard you the first time.”
“Then why do I waste my time . . .”
He held up his hand. “Be patient, my dear sir. Be understanding. You are clearly a man of culture. It was simply that i liked to hear you say it. Nobody has asked my for that set in fifteen --- sixteen years. The first time you said it I could not believe my ears. The second time the words sounded so mellifluous and beautiful. I was all but unmanned. As you said it the third time, sir, it seemed that the whole rich mosiac of my life as a secondhand book dealer was spreading in front of me in all its multitudinous hues to the very limits of the far horizon. You are talking to a man you have made very happy. is that not enow?”
“Indeed, i am very pleased, but let me put my question another way. Do you have it?
He shook his head, “No.”
. . .
The pesky book dealer cried, “Wait, sir! I don’t have it. But somewhere up or down the Charing Cross Road, some dealer will have a set be assured. Perhaps in a cellar warehouse in East Grinstead, perhaps in poor condition. whatever they ask, offer half. If you don’t buy it they will never sell it. Now, leave me please; this has been a very moving experience. I may even close my doors for the day.”"