She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. . “Time for my Patience,” she said. Sheppard, who seemed to be crouching upon the floor. 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. How can I tell you all I feel? I love you beyond measure. .
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