She went on with her dressing, and I looked about the room curiously. I had a dim recollection of my mother’s room⁠—a plain bed, a bureau, a big rocking chair, and a rag carpet. I had looked into the widow’s room at the boarding house, too. That was plainer than my mother’s. It had a cheap, single bed; a packing case covered with a sheet, and a cracked mirror propped against the wall served as a bureau. There was a hard-looking chair at the head of the bed. There was no carpet on the widow’s floor.