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. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. ’ No Latin? And no guns or daggers, naturally. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. Pardon! I wish to say, for your granddaughter, we seek succour.
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