Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. CHAPTER XII. 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. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears. There was a black fear in his heart. Her heartbeat quickened. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer.
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