Jack was not half your age when he died. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. “You love some one else?” he repeated. 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. ‘In fact, I’ve never met anyone who goaded me to so much violence.
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