It was much worn, and had so little head-room that the laird could not ascend without stooping.

Cosmo was short enough as yet to go erect, but it gave him always a feeling of imprisonment and choking, a brief agony of the imagination, to pass through the narrow curve, though he did so at least twice every day.

It was the oldest-looking thing about the place--that staircase.
At the top of it, the laird turned to the right, and lifted the latch--all the doors were latched--of a dark-looking door.

It screaked dismally as it opened.

He entered and undid a shutter, letting an abiding flash of the ever young light of the summer day into the ancient room.