Those rooms were remarkable in their way. Mine
had evidently been a sitting chamber, as I judged from some such
broken articles of furniture, that appeared to be of American make.
That which Stephen occupied had once served as a sleeping-place, for
the bedstead of iron still remained there. Also there were a hanging
bookcase, now fallen, and some tattered remnants of books. One of
these, that oddly enough was well-preserved, perhaps because the white
ants or other creatures did not like the taste of its morocco binding,
was a Keble's /Christian Year/, on the title-page of which was
written, "To my dearest Elizabeth on her birthday, from her husband."
I took the liberty to put it in my pocket. On the wall, moreover,
still hung the small watercolour picture of a very pretty young woman
with fair hair and blue eyes, in the corner of which picture was
written in the same handwriting as that in the book, "Elizabeth, aged
twenty." This also I annexed, thinking that it might come in useful as
a piece of evidence.
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