A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. "I'll admit that. It opened and a nun’s head popped out. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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