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. ‘Very well, never mind. And yet he knew clearly and definitely what he purposed to do, what the future would be. “In self-defence I had to,” she answered. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things.
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