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John finally wrested her away from the company of his parents, insisting that he wanted to take a walk in the park before it was completely dark. " "It is not Jack's voice," rejoined Mrs. He looked half at her and half at the sky. " "My dear," observed Wood, "you should be more charitable—" "Charitable!" repeated his wife, "that's your constant cry. 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 hurried with Jack as fast as she could to the open door to the passage. .
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