“I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. 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. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. Wood, terrified by the wildness of her looks.
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