The meanness lay in lime-washed walls, scant fittings, and uncovered boards; the distinction came of ample proportions and something of durability in the furniture.
Rooms, like human faces, reflect their histories; and that generation after generation of the same family had here struggled to birth or death was written in this chamber unmistakably.

The candle-light, twinkling on the face of a dark wardrobe near the door, lit up its rough inscription, "S.T.

and M.T., MDCLXVII"; the straight-backed oaken chairs might well claim an equal age; and the bed in the corner was a spacious four-poster, pillared in smooth mahogany and curtained in faded green damask.
In the shadow of this bed lay the man who had spoken.

A single candle stood on a tall chest at his left hand, and its ray, filtering through the thin green curtain, emphasised the hue of death on his face.
The features were pinched, and very old.

His tone held neither complaint nor passion: it was matter-of-fact even, as of one whose talk is merely a concession to good manners.