Killed is too kind a word. “Even if he lives here you may go all your life and never come face to face with him again. I wanted the magic of love. 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 meant mischief. I sha'n't utter a word. “Yeah, everybody knows him Mom. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help.
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