‘Gerald, this is a nun’s habit. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man. Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey. 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. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome.
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