On some bookshelves, which stood on the floor against the wall in the corner at the foot of the bed, I recognised Henrik Wergeland's bust, even more defective about the chin and nose than in my time, and now, in addition, blind in one eye; he had fared almost as badly as the old pipe I used to smoke, which I recognised again, in spite of its being cut and hacked in every direction.

For my friend had a habit of cutting marks in it while he sat smoking, now and then throwing a word into the conversation to keep it going, just as one throws fuel on a fire--it was the spirit of the conversation, and that something should be said, rather than the thought itself, he cared about.

When sitting thus, his face often wore a melancholy, peaceful expression, as if he were smiling at something beautiful we others did not see.
Between the bed and the shelves I discovered some bottles, ordinary spirit bottles, and the suspicion flashed like lightning through my mind--I have, as I said, become suspicion personified, not naturally, but through disappointment--that my friend was perhaps given to drink.
I put the lamp down upon the floor.

In one bottle was ink, in the second paraffin, and in the third, a smaller one, cod-liver oil, which he probably took for his chest.
I remembered his clammy hand, his stopping, and heavy breathing on the stairs, and I felt thoroughly ashamed that I could have been such a wretch as to think the dear friend, I might also say ideal, of my youth, was no better than any scamp in vulgar life, who positively ought to be suspected.
I offered him, in silence, a penitent apology, while I read over the titles on the backs of the books, recognising one and another.

These shelves seemed to be the bookshelves of his student days.