Leonardo had taught her pretty well everything she could have need to know, when they had talked long at his bedside. Not much to his surprise, Jack Kimble shook his head. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. On searching the coat, he found, amongst other matters, a mask, a key, and a pocket-book. 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 am always reinventing myself with new styles.
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