"Sir Rowland must be gone. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. He felt himself collapse heavily onto her naked body, still inside her. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. He remained listening attentively. That Mr. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable.
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