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. "I knew that would bring him to," thought Wild. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. They weren’t very chummy with one another but Sheila 113 didn’t expect much from a foster daughter as long as she worked hard, very hard, to earn her keep.
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