He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. 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. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. It’s all nonsense. Kneebone, his impertinence was copied to the letter by Solomon. She asked the girl to fetch Mr.
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