"No—Sheppard?" rejoined Wild. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. ” She changed the subject abruptly. ” Anna hesitated no longer. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. 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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