Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her. They did not spend most days together. 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. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess.
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