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. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face.
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