She had put a rug down by his desk, to keep his feet from the inhospitable cold linoleum which covered the floor of the room. She had bought some shabby but thick curtains from a village jumble sale, to take the place of the cotton ones which had draped the study windows ever since he had taken up residence years ago.
There was always a small vase of flowers on the side table, at the moment complete with pheasants eye narcissi and sprigs of young greenery from the garden. An electric fire had been installed, and although Charles himself never thought to switch it on, used as he was to a monastic chill in the room, Dimity would tiptoe in and rectify matters on icy mornings.
He was a fortunate man, he told himself, to have such a wonderfully unselfish wife, and one who had the gift of making a home in the straitened circumstances in which they lived.
Gossip from Thrush Green