‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. 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. Her thick body was heavy and massive. She even touched lightly on her father’s unreasonableness. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me.
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