"All right," replied Sheppard, with affected indifference. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. He introduced her as his \"friend\" Lucy. 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. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you. She drew a long breath.
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