Hoped you'd not be retaken. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. Lucy grabbed its handle, her broken bones mending inside her causing her to wince in pain. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice. 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.
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