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. ‘You see, it’s difficult to do a service for someone when you don’t know who they are, or what they’re up to. " Thames was about to reply, but a glance from Wood checked him.
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