It was rather attractive, when you turned the corner and came on it
suddenly, flat-roofed and small, clean white and innocent. The spring
twilight gave it that look of being somewhere in Italy, the look that
made you fall in love with it at first sight.
As for not getting used to it, that was precisely the effect she wanted:
rooms that wouldn't look like anything in the house at Morfe, things that
she would always come on with a faint, exquisite surprise: the worn
magentaish rug on the dark polished floor, the oak table, the gentian
blue chair, the thin magenta curtains letting the light through: the
things Richard had given her because in their beginning they had been
meant for her. Richard knew that you were safe from unhappiness, that you
had never once "gone back on it," if you could be happy with his things.
He had thought, too, that if you had a house you would settle down and
work.
You would have to; you would have to work like blazes, after spending all
the money Aunt Charlotte left you on rushing about, and half the money
Aunt Lavvy left you on settling down. It was horrible this living on
other people's deaths.