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. That is why Wall Street broke your father; he was honest. If he succeeds there, I do not know how I can prove myself. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said.
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