"
"You can't," I shouted.
"_She_ can't, you mean," said Morgan, "and that's exactly why I'm
going there."
"But the room is not furnished."
"It's out of her reach."
"One of the windows has fallen to pieces."
"It's out of her reach."
"There's a crow's nest in the corner."
"It's out of her reach."
By the time this unanswerable argument had attained its third
repetition, Morgan, in his turn, had disappeared up the winding
stairs. I knew him too well to attempt any further protest.
Here was my first difficulty smoothed away most unexpectedly; for
here were the rooms in the lean-to placed by their owner's free
act and deed at my disposal. I wrote on the spot to the one
upholsterer of our distant county town to come immediately and
survey the premises, and sent off a mounted messenger with the
letter. This done, and the necessary order also dispatched to the
carpenter and glazier to set them at work on Morgan's sky-parlor
in the seventh story, I began to feel, for the first time, as if
my scattered wits were coming back to me. By the time the evening
had closed in I had hit on no less than three excellent ideas,
all providing for the future comfort and amusement of our fair
guest. The first idea was to get her a Welsh pony; the second was
to hire a piano from the county town; the third was to send for a
boxful of novels from London.
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