The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. 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. As to the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you do go I shall need no memorial of you.
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