He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. Sometimes she missed her cue and nodded affirmatively when the gesture should have been the reverse; and Prudence would send her a sharp glance of disapproval. 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. “Sir John of course disapproves of me,” she remarked slowly. I am certainly no ghost. At least I can’t talk to them.
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