And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. Even were she to get an opportunity to scream, it would be some time before such a call, unprecedented though it might be, brought the nuns so much out of their absorption that they interrupted their prayer to investigate. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. ‘And she’s—’ She broke off, a sudden light in her eyes.
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