All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. She attacked me with a carving-knife, and, when I had disarmed her, the jade bit off a couple of fingers from my left hand. But they’ve just been to see General Charvill. 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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