Gold-handled, too. 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. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. " "Others may, if you won't," muttered Jack, retiring. .
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