She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency. 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. By the intense look of him, she guessed that she had just encountered for the first time the boy genius Martin Chen. She reached for the door handle. He made it brief. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. He knew what he knew. He's as generous as he's frolicsome.
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