The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. 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. But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you.
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