" "So do I!" she cried; "for then you would have been really my brother. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst. Jonathan Wild brought him off. 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. " "Devil!" muttered Jack, again grasping his pistol. White. It took my breath away.
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