“Morning, Mom. The stranger started at the touch, and spoke. ’ ‘Yes, do so,’ rejoined Melusine enthusiastically. 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. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror.
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