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 declare I don't know what to do," said Wood, burned by conflicting emotions. If he could keep it up—style and calibre of imagination—within a year the name of Taber would become widely known. ” She shook her head.
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