Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. 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. “These are her rooms,” she said. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son. Jack was completely overcome.
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