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. You couldn’t help it. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. "No such thing," rejoined Thames. I might as well try to build a ladder to heaven. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing.
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