things in the walls.

The paint and paper look as if a boys' school had used it.
It is stripped off--the paper--in great patches all around the
head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place
on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse
paper in my life.

One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every
artistic sin.

It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following,
pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and
when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance
they suddenly commit suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles,
destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.

The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering
unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.

It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly
sulphur tint in others.

No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if
I had to live in this room long.

There comes John, and I must put this away,--he hates to
have me write a word.