For a few minutes, Darrell seemed to have the advantage in the conflict. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. I had not been near the Royal Society since—since you disgraced me. “Stop it!. Annabel looked up and down the empty street, and then turned to her sister. She was my first love. She could not help but admit that she liked being smiled at and addressed in the hallways by hordes of friendly faces. 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.
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