I had lately been accustomed to hear the heels of my shoes go clinking over the well-waxed boards of my simple room, and to look out at the woods and fields through a narrow framework of white dimity.

Here were voluptuous curtains and carpets that forbade sound, and denied the daylight.

The farm was my beau-ideal of a home; therefore my room at the farm was my beau-ideal of a room; therefore all this comfort was oppressive and ridiculous.
Miss Leonard did not come to seek me.

Perhaps she was out.

I guessed there was a mistake, and made myself content.