All this he felt hovering very close at hand; one nod too many of his nurse's head, and up she would start, off she would go, off _he_ would go....

He watched her and stroked very softly his warm, fat calf.
It was a fine, spacious room that he inhabited.

The ceiling--very, very far away--was white and glimmering with shadowy spaces of gold flung by the sun across the breast of it.

The wallpaper was dark-red, and there were many coloured pictures of ships and dogs and snowy Christmases, and swans eating from the hands of beautiful little girls, and one garden with roses and peacocks and a tumbling fountain.

To Ernest Henry these were simply splashes of colour, and colour, moreover, scarcely so convincing as the bright blue screen by the fire, or the golden brown rug by the door; but he was dimly aware that, as the days passed, so did he find more and more to consider in the shapes and sizes between the deep black frames....