There was a gentle rustling of skirts. "What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. ‘You’re not going to kill me this time. ” “I am sorry,” said Ann Veronica. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. 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. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture.
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