"Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. . 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. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon.
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