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. The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. His tone changed, becoming a little more moderate. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. "But if you do not find this aunt, what will you do? What can you do to protect yourself against hunger?" "I'll find something. ‘Don’t involve me in your lover’s tiff.
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