The lady grasped it more firmly and turned it upon Hilary. It is no good going into that. He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray.
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