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. ” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. Wiped out, but for these. Together they made their painful way to the door, not even checking, in the effort this cost both, on what Gosse might be doing. Michelle answered the door.
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