He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas. 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. It was possible that his first impressions had not been correct. He continued alternately to be tossed in the air, or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. "It is too late. Once, when he thought he had done so, he smiled an ingratiating smile.
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