That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. Could she hold him and manage the reins? If only Gerald had not gone. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. All the world before you, all the ologies. See paragraph 1. 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.
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