The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. ’ Even as they watched, a shadow passed across one of the apertures. Even the stars were strangers. Mrs. 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. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. ” “I thought you would find that out.
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