The wall-paper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and
it sticketh closer than a brother--they must have had
perseverance as well as hatred.

Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the
plaster itself is dug out here and there, and this great heavy
bed which is all we found in the room, looks as if it had been
through the wars.

But I don't mind it a bit--only the paper.

There comes John's sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and
so careful of me! I must not let her find me writing.

She is a perfect and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for
no better profession. I verily believe she thinks it is the
writing which made me sick!

But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off
from these windows.

There is one that commands the road, a lovely shaded winding
road, and one that just looks off over the country. A lovely
country, too, full of great elms and velvet meadows.

This wall-paper has a kind of sub-pattern in a different
shade, a particularly irritating one, for you can only see it in
certain lights, and not clearly then.