I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. Hope reared. 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’d have to be blown up into a thousand pieces. "It's a whale of a place. I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. I cannot explain beyond that. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head.
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