Lucy stole her last chance to observe Martin Chen, looking provocatively into his 257 eyes as the door was shut. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. They could not go on. \"Carry your books for you?\" He asked. 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.
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