“I don’t care what any one thinks,” said Ann Veronica. 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. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. "Been to those places?" "No.
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