It was a small room, sparsely furnished. The floor was of polished boards; a small Numdah rug lay beside the bed. The bedstead was of iron. The Colonel had bought it at a sale for fifteen shillings, and it fitted him, being simple and spare and only a little larger than he was himself. The Colonel’s suits were kept in a wardrobe at the top of the stairs, and his old woollen dressing-gown hung on a hook behind the door, so that the only other furniture the room contained was a small chest-of-drawers painted white by the Colonel himself. On this were kept his military brushes and a black plastic comb, a glass of water for his teeth, a bottle of Vaseline Hair Tonic, a framed photograph of his wife, Wells’ Outline of History, The Origin of Life (condensed), and two cheap brown books published in the thirties by The Thinkers’ Library. Colonel Baker had carried these books with him for many years, to bolster what, when you examined it, was no more than a prejudice, for the Colonel’s free-thinking was not an intellectual attitude; it was a simple emotional dislike of cant.
What do You think about The Centre Of The Green (2012)?
