Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. 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. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. ’ ‘How shocking,’ Gerald returned, grinning. I’m sorry I ruined dinner. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. These were presently joined by a regiment of foot. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. As soon as the latter beheld him, she uttered a loud scream, and fainted.
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