There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. 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. "Poor creature!" ejaculated Wood. I wonder if some of them did—and it didn’t get reported.
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