He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. He became a little more personal and intimate. She passed down the stairs and into the street. I didn’t understand before that letter. 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. ” “Wait? For what?” She replied.
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