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. “I will tell you as much as this,” she continued. "Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated.
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