Sheppard. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. 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. Otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. "I am your most unhappy son. .
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