“You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. Yet there was nothing for her to do. Montague Hill is. ‘But for now, I’m taking you home. 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. “I’ve thought about it.
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