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. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. Tea in the laboratory was a sort of suffragette reception. ” “Perhaps,” he said, “you had better let me have your key, and I will go up and explore. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. Over here a man quickly loses faith, and I find myself back on solid ground once more.
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