Outside, on the beach, was my flat-bottomed skiff, which I used for rowing about the bay, her oars under the thwarts.

In the boathouse was a comfortable armchair and a small shelf of books, novels for the most part.

A cheap clock and a broken-down couch, the latter a discard from the original outfit of the cottage, made up the list of furniture.
My idea in coming to the boathouse was to continue my work with the engine.

I tried it for a half hour or so and then gave it up.

It did not interest me then.