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"But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely. The loneliness of the place somewhat depressed her. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. 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. " "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. Pull yourself together now. ToC During the whole of the next day and night, the poor widow hovered like a ghost about the precincts of the debtors' garrison,—for admission (by the Master's express orders,) was denied her. He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners.
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