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. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. on. You can give up thinking and leave all the brain work to her. I don’t care what divides us. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket.
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