" "My penance forbids it," said Trenchard, waving his hand. We girls, my sister and I, were left quite alone when our father died, and I made up my mind to make some little place in the world for myself. 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.
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