‘It’s a pretty name. Good-bye, Anna!” Annabel sprang up. 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. Running his hand carefully over it in search of the lock, he perceived to his dismay that it was fastened on the other side. It wasn’t pretty.
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