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. I’m convinced that much of Russell’s investigations are on wrong lines, unsound lines. “Hello? She’s like, your girlfriend, not mine. “You must be the Miss Pellissier of whom David has told me so much,” he said, shyly.
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