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 was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. "How so?" asked Wild, curiously. You never can tell. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones.
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