‘Don’t dare call her that to my face. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. “Splendid you are looking to-day, Miss Stanley,” he said. “What a gloomy person you are!” she murmured. Groups of boys took to ogling her as she walked frenetically from class to class. 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. ‘It is all the fault of that lantern. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily.
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