It was a grand life. Wild will hang me. 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. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. They sold him the whisky.
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