Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Brendon. 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. ’ Gerald could not resist. “I think they do.
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