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 made an abrupt personal appeal. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened. " "It's light. I don't know; I really don't know," she found herself repeating.
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