"Open the door, I say, or I'll burst it open. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. 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. "But you've done well to trust me. ” It was sitting in her suitcase in the same pocket as the expired bus tickets.
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