" "Right," answered Ireton. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. Sheppard in a troubled voice, "that if I lost my child, I should lose all I have left in the world. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. I'm a stickler about clothes and clean chins. 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.
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