For this, contrary to all possible expectations, was either the room of
a man of literary tastes, and of one who also preferred simplicity and
utility to display of any sort, or it was an extremely clever imitation
of such a room. And there were certain rather trustworthy evidences of
the former.
The room, although smaller than the outer one, was a place of good size,
with several large windows. Its walls to a height of several feet were
lined with bookshelves filled to overflowing, the whole representing no
less than three or four thousand books; Roberta could hardly guess at
their number. Several comfortable easy-chairs and a massive desk were
almost the only other furnishings, unless one included a few framed
foreign photographs and the two portraits which hung on opposite walls.
These presently called for study.
Rosamond came in and stood beside her sister, regarding the portraits
with curiosity. "The father has a remarkably fine face, hasn't he?" she
observed, turning from one to the other. "Unusually fine; and I think
his son resembles him. But he is more like his mother. Isn't she
beautiful? And he never knew her; she died when he was such a little
fellow.
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