The doctor and another man were by his bedside when they entered the room, and there were writing materials which had evidently been used close at hand. They order me to get my man, and I get him. 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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