"Here, Poll, help me!" Thus exhorted, Mrs. His glasses were gone. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. 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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