There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. Anna leaned forward, watching the people in the streets. Charvill’s fury was burning out. Every one looked at Anna. The aunt laughed. " "Iss, missis," grinned the black. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. The cave had always been considered an evil place by the braves and for the most part they left her alone. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. 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 life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery.
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