If only she had thought to plunge the scissors into her own heart! Hoddy … to return and find her either gone or dead! But even as the Wastrel's arms gathered her, there came the sound of hurrying steps on the veranda. 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. Here it is. ‘Certainly you are imbecile. She hated the manor. I would not think so of you, Marthe. He opened the drawer of the writing table. But it was now too late to turn back, and, nerving himself for the shock he expected to encounter, he ventured after his conductor. She aimed directly at Rhea’s head. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory.
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