“Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. Its parents have perished. Maggot had been brought to a termination. He called a waiter. ” “A little pit!” said Ann Veronica; “a little prison!” “It’s just as often a little refuge. 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. I felt—I felt living in a masked world.
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