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. Sebastian became furious and would have killed the man had he not been drafted into battle within the week. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. But I don’t wish to hear that abomination on her lips again. She took to listening through closed doors. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years.
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