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. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. People who would not go. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. Wood, "it may be poisoned.
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