“No thanks. ‘—and what do I do? Well, we know what I do. 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. Wood—" "That's false!" cried a voice behind him. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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