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. Ever hear of the djinn in the bottle? Like enough. But we can’t help noticing. Only now it does not matter at all because Joan has come and has seen me.
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