Even her own history teacher, Mr. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. "I never went to school. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. 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. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it.
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