human
Poor old girl, he muttered.
gpt
Hang that 'bus accident. I wish I'd been here in time for the party---- Then his shrewd face softened as the deeper meaning of the room reached him. It was ugly; it was commonplace, but it was more of a home than many a room his journalistic activities had acquainted him with. By a low, shabby, comfortable-looking arm-chair that stood near the flower-filled grate was a dark-covered table on which stood five photographs, all in shiny silver or leather frames. Mr. Wick stood over the table tapping his teeth softly with his pencil, and moving his lips in a way that produced a hollow tune.
human
So that's the little lot, he said to himself in a cheerful, confidential voice.
gpt
Three feminines and two masculines, as the Italians say. And very nice too. Her own corner, I bet. Yes, there's her fountain pen. He took it up and made a note of its make and laid it carefully down. There was a little fire-screen in the shape of a banner of wool embroidery on the table.
human
That's how she keeps the firelight out of her eyes when she's working in the winter. Poor old girl. What ghastly muck it is, too---- Good thing for her the public likes it. Now, then, what about that bell? Guess I'll go and have another tinkle at it.