He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. 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. She was discussing one of those modern advanced plays with a remarkable, with an extraordinary, confidence. She must not show anything. A young man was playing the banjo.
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