Instead, they appeared to be at the hygienic level of tramps’ lodging-houses. You can if you will. Wood chanced to be murdered by Blueskin, the fellow who just left the room, on the very night of his return, as it has thrown the house into such confusion, and so distracted them, that he has had no time as yet for hostile movements. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears. 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. She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep.
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