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. "Yes. His face was downcast. "Let us in," said the Master, rapping his truncheon authoritatively against the boards, "or we'll force an entrance. It was exactly as Sebastian had foreseen. What marriage really meant (aside from the idea of escape), Ruth had not the least conception, no more than a child. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him.
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