Possessed, at one time, of a share in the South Sea stock, he conceived himself worth twenty thousand pounds. 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. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. But I don't understand her; she's over my head.
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