A square of old rag carpet covered the center of the floor, and beyond its border the warped boards were painted a dull, pale green.

The walls were ugly with a cheap, flowered paper that had done its best to fade into inoffensive neutral tints.

Jean had helped, where she could, by covering the intricate rose pattern with old prints cut from magazines and with cheap, pretty souvenirs gleaned here and there and hoarded jealously.

And there were books, which caught the eyes and held them even to forgetfulness of the paper.
You would laugh at Jean's room.

Just at first you would laugh; after that you would want to cry, or pat Jean on her hard-muscled, capable shoulder; but if you knew Jean at all, you would not do either.