‘Home?’ ‘To your family. ‘So that’s true, is it?’ ‘Certainly it is true,’ Melusine said, opening her eyes wide. 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 can't pump out all there is to these compositions.
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