It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. . There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. ’ ‘I could have done so at the first and saved you the pain,’ she told him merrily. “Where are they?” She looked around. . 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.
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