Before his departure, he gave his assistant a glove. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. 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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