Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her. 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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