Lucy stared like an automaton at Michelle’s unconscious 262 body, revolted at her own actions to the point of shock. "Oh no—no! You say this to terrify me—to try me. It has become a part of the order of my life. I really cannot have anything to do with Mr. Better get a dress. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. 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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