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. I was standing near Jack at that awful moment, and beheld the look Wild fixed on him. Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue.
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