But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. ToC Tyburn was now at hand. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. 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. She pulled the trigger. Wood in the deepest mourning. Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her.
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