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. Probably he will come around to-morrow and begin all over again. Free! All the fine ecstasy, without the numbing terror. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture.
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