Rooms in Winter, Where I Am Going to Bed

In winter, where I am going to bed, how would I once bear in my head in a nest, built up out of the most diverse materials. The hand where, the fire keeping in all night, I would sleep wrapped up,. as it were, in a great cloak of snug and savory air. In a sort of alco of without walls, the cave of form, dug out of the heart of the room itself. Sometimes again that little room with the high ceiling, hollowed in the form of a pyramid out of two separate stories, and partly walled in mahogany.