Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet. 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. Something seemed awry. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. "I believe he's gone," he said, returning to Jonathan.
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