“I see nothing of my sister,” she said. 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. That would not help her. The light disappeared. She held out her hand frankly. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. " "Nothing in the pockets.
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