Chapter 97

The room was small, dark and windowless. Dirty rushes covered the floor and a tallow candle sat on a small wobbly table pushed against a grimy wall. The candle flickered constantly, protesting against a cold draught that snaked its way through the building and into her room. Other guests at the inn, their raised voices seeping porously through paper-thin walls weren't seeing eye to eye and their disagreements, so full of anger and hate, and no longer private, seemed trivial and unimportant and pervaded her assiduous introspection. Charlotte sat on the horse-hair stuffed mattress and stared sightlessly at the yellow, smoky and agitated flame of the candle.