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. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles's. In one grave, mind. It would not be possible otherwise to live in daily contact with this level-eyed, lovely girl without loving her.
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