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. And he unsheathed his sword. Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. One more passer-by; and always would she remember his patience and tenderness and disinterestedness. Shotbolt?" rejoined the executioner. 175 “Before you tell me the whole story,” she emphasized the penultimate word, “just let me do something for you.
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