“Let us walk across the Park at least,” he said to Ann Veronica. For the first time a definite doubt possessed him. I am sorry to seem to hurt you, but all I say is for your good. 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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