It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon. 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. Waving a white flag, naturally. He's a cutie. Only, he'll be an interesting specimen for me to observe.
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