There were three brass bedsteads in a row, only four feet broad, with
spring-beds, hair mattresses a foot thick, and snowy sheets for
coverlets, instead of counter-panes; so that, if you were hot, feverish,
or sleepless in one bed, you might try another, or two.
Thick carpets and rugs, satin-wood wardrobes, prodigious wash-hand
stands, with china backs four feet high. Towel-horses, nearly as big as a
donkey, with short towels, long towels, thick towels, thin towels,
bathing sheets, etc.; baths of every shape; and cans of every size; a
large knee-hole table; paper and envelopes of every size. In short, a
room to sleep in, study in, live in, and stick fast in, night and day.
But what is this? A Gothic arch, curtained with violet merino. He draws
the curtain. It is an ante-room. One half of it is a bathroom, screened,
and paved with encaustic tiles that run up the walls, so you may splash
to your heart's content. The rest is a studio, and contains a choice
little library of well-bound books in glass cases, a piano-forte, and a
harmonium. Severne tried them; they were both in perfect tune. Two
clocks, one in each room, were also in perfect time.
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