Mrs. ’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. 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.
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