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. “I had to. Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. She pulled her chair with a mild creak and marched towards the stair. ‘That is not your affair. Before a month has elapsed, your mother will be mine. Her normally shiny hair was 143 stringy and flat. Man's fate is in his own hands. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. ‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture.
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