’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. 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 future was not so black.
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