’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. There was a dreadful stifled groan, and she fell heavily upon the landing. 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. If only you could see the people who have been to call on me! Sir John has the most absurd ideas, too.
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