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. Then he turned on his heel and walked off. She removed the belt and drew down his zipper. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. “Damn!” said Ann Veronica to herself, rousing herself for a conflict.
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