’ ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Back to Blaye, my girl. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. The effects of the heroin wore off slowly. Her sensitive ears could hear her foster mother snoring in front of the television. Her thoughts took words for themselves. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. "Yes. 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.
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