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. Martha had been more to her than that. Did he like freaks? She opened her black umbrella, her giant sun deflector. "He seems infatuated about the lad," observed Wild.
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