Satirical prints, though they did not unduly preponderate, were not wanting.

Besides these there were books from a London circulating library, paper-covered light literature in French and choice Italian, and the latest monthly reviews; while between the two windows stood the telegraph apparatus whose wire had been the means of bringing him hither.
These things, ensconced amid so much of the old and hoary, were as if a stray hour from the nineteenth century had wandered like a butterfly into the thirteenth, and lost itself there.
The door between this ante-chamber and the sleeping-room stood open.
Without venturing to cross the threshold, for he felt that he would be abusing hospitality to go so far, Somerset looked in for a moment.

It was a pretty place, and seemed to have been hastily fitted up.

In a corner, overhung by a blue and white canopy of silk, was a little cot, hardly large enough to impress the character of bedroom upon the old place.

Upon a counterpane lay a parasol and a silk neckerchief.