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. I guess they were bad all the time. ‘That is better, no?’ ‘Dieu. And I’ll have that story off you as we journey back to town. I do, however. ‘Help yourself, Hilary. " "Uh-huh. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh.
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