"I wonder," said Ruth. ” She commented, only to herself. Nasty, damp passages. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. 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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