Period trying desperately to cover her nudity with a dingy hand towel she had found lying on the floor in a corner. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. I am a single man, and——” “Thank you,” she interrupted. 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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