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. But, no. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Lucy simply added her own good night, even though a significant part of her wanted to call Cathy mother, she refrained. Beyond the hatch, an angle, formed by a projection in the wall of some three or four feet, served to hide a door conducting to the interior of the prison. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. Last week. “It makes one feel quite awkward to mention such a thing, but after all I think that it is best for both parties.
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