It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery with unpainted wood. As the screening was not more than eight or ten feet high and only enclosed the sides, not the top, the rafters of the high gallery roof were overhead, and the skylight through which Mr. Bucket had looked down. The sun was low--near setting--and its light came redly in above, without descending to the ground. Upon a plain canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshire, dressed much as we had seen him last, but so changed that at first I recognized no likeness in his colourless face to what I recollected.
He had been still writing in his hiding-place, and still dwelling on his grievances, hour after hour. A table and some shelves were covered with manuscript papers and with worn pens and a medley of such tokens. Touchingly and awfully drawn together, he and the little mad woman were side by side and, as it were, alone. She sat on a chair holding his hand, and none of us went close to them.
His voice had faded, with the old expression of his face, with his strength, with his anger, with his resistance to the wrongs that had at last subdued him. The faintest shadow of an object full of form and colour is such a picture of it as he was of the man from Shropshire whom we had spoken with before.

It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery by a high screen. Overhead were the rafters, and the skylight through which Mr. Bucket had looked down. The sun was near setting, and its light came redly in above. Upon a canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshire, but so changed that at first I did not recognize his colourless face.
He had been writing in his hiding-place, and still dwelling on his grievances. A table was covered with manuscripts and worn pens. He and the little mad woman were side by side; she sat on a chair holding his hand.
His voice had faded, with his strength and his anger; he was the faintest shadow of the former man from Shropshire. 