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‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said the lady sadly. ’ ‘Then what?’ demanded Lucilla in a hushed tone. 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 would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses.
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