Winifred pointed to the door. Once over the iron spikes, Bess exhibited no reluctance to be let down on the other side of the wall. "Oh, Rollo, there are so many things I don't know! But you love me, don't you?" Rollo wagged his stump violently and tried to lick her face. 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. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest.
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