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. "Do you think I'd take the trouble to announce him? These are persons of consequence, I tell you. He figures them out, though. You won't mind if I empty this gin?" "No. There ends my duty.
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