Gravely he placed them in his aunt's hand. “I should think YOU could do all sorts of things. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her. I’ve made no one happy. 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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