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. "And someday let him care for me!" She sprang up, alarmed. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. . I had that coming.
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