There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. 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. ‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am. Michelle looked at their reflections in the wall mirror. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her.
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