There was, first, the bed I was lying in; a four-post bed, of all
things in the world to meet with in Paris--yes, a thorough clumsy
British four-poster, with the regular top lined with chintz--the
regular fringed valance all round--the regular stifling,
unwholesome curtains, which I remembered having mechanically
drawn back against the posts without particularly noticing the
bed when I first got into the room. Then there was the
marble-topped wash-hand stand, from which the water I had
spilled, in my hurry to pour it out, was still dripping, slowly
and more slowly, on to the brick floor. Then two small chairs,
with my coat, waistcoat, and trousers flung on them. Then a large
elbow-chair covered with dirty-white dimity, with my cravat and
shirt collar thrown over the back. Then a chest of drawers with
two of the brass handles off, and a tawdry, broken china inkstand
placed on it by way of ornament for the top. Then the
dressing-table, adorned by a very small looking-glass, and a very
large pincushion. Then the window--an unusually large window.
Then a dark old picture, which the feeble candle dimly showed me.
It was a picture of a fellow in a high Spanish hat, crowned with
a plume of towering feathers. A swarthy, sinister ruffian,
looking upward, shading his eyes with his hand, and looking
intently upward--it might be at some tall gallows at which he was
going to be hanged.
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