Looking away from his book, Peter stared at the hard hot brightness of the one Iighted lamp. He liked the yellow compact circle of light thrown from the unshaded bulb, for although it was adequate for reading, it was too small to illuminate the room. For a long time, almost it seemed, from the time of his first coherent thought, he had wanted to burst the bonds which chained him to the room. And each night he read to forget the soiled cracked wallpaper and the thick film of dust which smudged the window panes and slid along the edges of the floor. Each night he read, for reading was the one escape he knew from the room he despised and the house he had never called home. But now these were only phantoms in a deep darkness of shadow, and that is why he liked the small unshaded lamp which obscured the corners of the room.
"The Spot of Ink,"
Manuscripts: Vol. 11
, Article 6.
Available at: https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol11/iss2/6