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. A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. She met his eye for a moment in curious surprise. " "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son.
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