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. gutenberg. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. “I am not sure,” Anna answered. I don’t want you to be sad.
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