Hill. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. 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. "Go to your own room, woman, directly, or I'll make you!" "Make me!" echoed Mrs. “Oh, please. Perhaps in two or three weeks.
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