All that it had was a large-ish key-hole.
On this my eyes rested; and presently I moved to it, stooped down to
it, peered through it. I had a glimpse of--darkness impenetrable.
Strange it seemed to me, as I stood back, that there the Room was, the
remembered Room itself, separated from me by nothing but this
unremembered door...and a quarter of a century, yes. I saw it all, in
my mind's eye, just as it had been: the way the sunlight came into it
through this same doorway and through the lattices of these same four
windows; the way the little bit of a staircase came down into it, so
crookedly yet so confidently; and how uneven the tiled floor was, and
how low the rafters were, and how littered the whole place was with
books brought in from his den by William, and how bright with flowers
brought in by Mary from her garden. The rafters, the stairs, the
tiles, were still existing, changeless in despite of cobwebs and dust
and darkness, all quite changeless on the other side of the door, so
near to me. I wondered how I should feel if by some enchantment the
door slowly turned on its hinges, letting in light. I should not
enter, I felt, not even look, so much must I hate to see those inner
things lasting when all that had given to them a meaning was gone from
them, taken away from them, finally.
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