” She cried once they were in the great room. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. These things illuminated her situation extremely. " And thus their domesticity at McClintock's began—with the tubbing of a stray yellow dog. Here again instinct guided her. She came to adore them. Horrible doubts assailed her. Something unpardonable is laid to my charge. 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. So soft.
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