" Half an hour later she laid aside the book. ‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. ‘You! Tell this fool who is the keeper here to come to me at once. This is something above all rules. ” Just then the man’s eyes opened. Wood, popping her head through the window. "I declare you throw me into an ague. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. ‘Leave it, imbecile. Les Misérables, A Tale of Two Cities, Henry Esmond, The Last Days of Pompeii, The Marble Faun … Love stories! Until her arrival in Singapore, she had never read a novel. He hated the taste of it. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. 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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