” He said to her with as much casualness as he could muster. He no longer made love to her, as there was no point. She directed the orchestra to tune again. 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. "Rather in the way. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. There's my thumb upon it.
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