"Going to befuddle himself between now and dinner," was the comment of Prudence. Sebastian had come to visit his old friend and former wife. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps. 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. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. I know that you were disappointed because I did not turn out to be the millionaire.
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