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. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. ‘You do not like it?’ ‘That is hardly the point. "Friday!" echoed Mrs. ‘It is that he needed me for his lie, no?’ Melusine said, striving to control the quiver in her voice.
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