She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. 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 quarrel with no man's political opinions, but I will have my own respected!" "Eh day!" exclaimed Mrs.
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