“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. “Both!” said Ann Veronica. Whenever they stepped from the chairs, he stepped down. 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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