We have come to the conclusion, Brendon and I, that Mrs. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. 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. Maggot, bursting into a loud contemptuous laugh.
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