\" He looked crestfallen. Don’t be frightened, dear. I do not wish to return to Paris. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. 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. “It’s too bad. He’s just. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself.
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