"We'll see that, you yelping hounds!" rejoined Jonathan, glaring fiercely at them. 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. The body of Sir Rowland was then laid on the large table.
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