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. They did not spend most days together. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. "I thought we were going to have some music," she said. \" Diane chirped once again, ever-musical. But one must disguise oneself.
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