" ***** "To me, you dirty blackguard!" cried Spurlock, flinging aside his helmet. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. 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. You are necessary to me.
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