A part of the pictured surface of the
latter had scaled off, disclosing a blank whiteness beneath. Even the
heavens, it seemed, were a sham; nothing more than a varnished painting
upon a plaster-of-Paris foundation. The flower-pots still stood in the
windows, but hot air and an irregular water-supply had made sad inroads
upon the beauty of the plants. The lower leaves were turned brown; some
of them had fallen off, and lay--poor, little unburied corpses--upon the
narrow circle of earth which, having failed to keep life green within
their cells, now denied to them the right of sepulture. A few of the
topmost sprouts still struggled to keep up a parody of verdure, and one
or two faded flowers had not yet forsaken their calices--a silly piece
of devotion on their part! Icy little blasts, squeezing in through the
crevices of the window-sash, whistled about the forlorn stalks, cutting
and venomous. The poor flowers would never see another summer; better
give up at once!
Even the books which met the eye on every side, wore a deserted air. Not
that they were dusty, for the chambermaid did her duty, if Bressant
failed in his; but there was something in the heavy, methodical manner
of their sleeping upon one another, such as they could never have
settled into had they been recently disturbed or opened.
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