And now she comprehended that the man (she had never known him by any name) knew she had surprised the look and had not resented it. 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 rarely set foot in London these days. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. Happy Birthday, then. Only you good ones— shirk. I mean my cut-offs and boots. He asked me out two days ago and I thought, hell, why not?” Michelle answered. "Heed her not. Yes—as he would have liked.
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