I don't know why I dragged my heels on reading this book for so long. I think I picked it up at the library sale a few years ago. My relationship with Robertson Davies is complicated. When I went to Europe 4 years ago, I brought his book The Cunning Man with me. I'd found it on the ferry one time and left it in my bookcase for who knows how long, then brought it on my trip because a) I hadn't read it, and b) since it had been free, it was disposable. When I finally did read it, I liked it so much I ended up bringing it home after all, to force it on Erin. (I don't know if she ever actually read it.)
So I figured since I seemed to like this author, I'd pick up a few more of his books, which I did at the aforementioned library sale, and promptly abandoned in my bookcase. This puzzling resistance continued until now, when I had nothing else to read. And guess what? I really liked it. I liked it so much I went to the library to get the second book in the Deptford Trilogy, of which this was the first. I'm going to start it right now.