Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. She covered herself with her arms. The crowd began to separate as it fell into the theater. 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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