The streets were full of colour. I would not think so of you, Marthe. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. 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. I knew it. “I will go,” he said. Immediately he was gone, she regretted that she had not followed. \" \"It's Diedermayer.
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