He saw Enschede, making the empty sea, alone, alone, forever alone. 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. "Can't!" repeated his mother. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. ‘I have only borrowed it. She laid her hand upon his arm. You must tell me what it all means. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. “For your own sake, let me beg of you not to stay for a moment.
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