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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. “But why now? Don’t boys know that I am involved with John right now?” “That’s not the way it works, Lucy. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. But there is need for the proof that I am me, and that is what I look for.

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