" "Her release would be a mercy," pursued the matron. She spoke with fluent enthusiasm. Katy had sneered at her for a moment, their eyes locking. The doors were closed and barricaded, and the mob threatened to burst them open if Jack was not delivered to them. 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. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf.
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