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. We two. Later on—well then the time may come. “I am happy. Hitherto you’ve seen only my easy, kindly side. . ’ ‘What if she goes back to Charvill?’ demanded Roding. Like carpenter, like chips.
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