I daresay that is one of the names of the nuns in your convent. "Caught!" shouted the head-turnkey. 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 have an arthritic complaint, which is why you find me retired from fashionable life.
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