She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. 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 imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. The blue jaws suggested courage and tenacity. “But Sir John?” he exclaimed. Certain it was, that the slightest sound aroused him. You are the High Priestess of Life. He would never recognize me now. “Hold on. But did any woman get anything better from a man? Perhaps every woman conceals herself from a man perforce!.
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