Perhaps Ramage was the more astonished. "Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. “I don’t know. ” She looked at him quizzically. 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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