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. You can trust me, Anna. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more.
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