“I wrote it for you. He brought home a few waverers to talk to them where they had no chance of getting away. ” Michelle looked at her friend in suspicious awe. The girl had told him distinctly that her name was Anna. 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. . .
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