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. He recognised this object at once. He held her eyes. But once I started, Forever Fifteen seemed to fly out of me like a bat out of Hell, virtually writing itself. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop.
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