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. Without an idea where he was going, Jack pursued his way through the fields; and, as he proceeded, the numbness of his limbs in some degree wore off, and his confidence returned. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away.
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