She knew blood was rushing to his face and other places as well. 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. ‘Well, that depends. They stood back together and stared at it. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. Her mouth lolled open and drool seeped down one corner.
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