There was a guitar and an old, old sewing machine with a reloading shotgun outfit spread out upon it.
There was a desk made of boxes, and on the desk lay a shot-loaded quirt that more than one rebellious cow-horse knew to its sorrow.

There was a rawhide lariat that had parted its strands in a tussle with a stubborn cow.

Jean meant to fix the broken end of the longest piece and use it for a tie-rope, some day when she had time, and thought of it.
Somewhere in the desk were verses which Jean had written,--dozens of them, and not nearly as bad as you might think.

Jean laughed at them after they were written; but she never burned them, and she never spoke of them to any one but Lite, who listened with fixed attention and a solemn appreciation when she read them to him.
On the whole, the room was contradictory.

But Jean herself was somewhat contradictory, and the place fitted her.