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. “Idiots!” she said, when she heard this pandemonium, and with particular reference to this young lady with the throaty contralto next door. It was the bitterest moment of her life. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. " "Where?" "At Yale. You’ll end up dead, that’s what.
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