My boys buy them with beads or bolts of calico of mine. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. 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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