Newspapers were pasted upon the ceiling and a great square of very dirty
matting covered the floor. There were a few pieces of furniture, very
old-fashioned, made of pine, with a black walnut veneer, two chairs, a
washstand and the bed. A great pile of old newspapers tied up with bale
rope was kicked into one corner. Two gas brackets without globes
stretched forth their long arms over the empty space where the bureau
should have been. Under the single window was Vandover's trunk, and upon
it his colour box and pots of paint. His hat hung upon a hook screwed to
the door. The hat had once been black, but it had long since turned to a
greenish hue, and sweat stains were showing about the band.
Vandover dressed slowly. He straightened his hair a bit before the cheap
mirror that hung over the washstand, putting on his hat immediately
after to keep it in place. He washed his hands in the dirty water that
had stood in his pasteboard bowl since the previous afternoon, but left
his face as it was. He put on his coat, an old cutaway which had been
his best years ago, but which was now absurdly small for him, the breast
all spotted and streaked with old stains of soup and gravy.
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