She slipped silently inside the door as he went inside a 12 putrid little bathroom to urinate. 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. Still it was possible, and the difficulty was only a fresh incitement. She heard their feet and muffled voices.
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