I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. 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. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall.
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