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. The gentlemen are so particular now, and a good thing too, I say. Also he is ugly. . But once I started, Forever Fifteen seemed to fly out of me like a bat out of Hell, virtually writing itself.
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