A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. "You want me, then?" she said. 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. "No," answered Jack, approaching her, "though, if I had done so, he would have merited his fate.
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