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. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. "Begone! or I fire!" he cried. Gerald would not marry her even with a dowry. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors.
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