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. "Constance is yet living. ” Lucy implored. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below.
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