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. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. A couple of gilt straight-backed chairs only. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. I’m not that sort I quite agree. That is what marriage is to most young women: the ultimate escape from the family, from the unwritten laws that govern children.
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