Still sitting on the bed, Vandover continued his stupid gaze about the room.
The room was small, and at some long-forgotten, almost prehistoric period had been covered with a yellowish paper, stamped with a huge pattern of flowers that looked like the flora of a carboniferous strata, a pattern repeated to infinity wherever the eye turned.
Newspapers were pasted upon the ceiling and a great square of very dirty matting covered the floor.

There were a few pieces of furniture, very old-fashioned, made of pine, with a black walnut veneer, two chairs, a washstand and the bed.

A great pile of old newspapers tied up with bale rope was kicked into one corner.

Two gas brackets without globes stretched forth their long arms over the empty space where the bureau should have been.

Under the single window was Vandover's trunk, and upon it his colour box and pots of paint.