You see, aunt, it’s the only possible way for me to get a good degree in my subjects, and father won’t hear of it. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. " Some order. ” “Sir John is an ass!” he declared. I’m anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found a treasure. Some people say that she’s partially responsible for Lindsey Daltrey’s suicide. She took to listening through closed doors. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. Tell him the truth, Annabel. 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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