It was a low wainscoted room, such as one sees in old houses: everything was in the most perfect neatness.
The snow-white sheets on the bed were turned down as if ready for an occupant.

There were books arranged on the shelves, fresh flowers on the table; the dressing-table had all its woman's mundus of pins, and rings, and brushes; even the dressing-gown lay over the chair-back.

Everything was evidently just as it had been left.
"This was her room, sir," whispered the old man.
Amyas nodded silently, and half drew back.
"You need not be modest about entering it now, sir," whispered he, with a sort of sneer.

"There has been no frail flesh and blood in it for many a day." Amyas sighed.
"I sweep it out myself every morning, and keep all tidy.

See here!" and he pulled open a drawer.