“I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. ‘But how did she meet such a person in a convent?’ ‘He was wounded and came there for sanctuary,’ Gerald explained, adding almost through his teeth. Old London Bridge. Very intelligent, by the looks of the books she was carrying. Ann Veronica looked up at him and found him regarding her with eyes that were almost woebegone, and into which, indeed, he was trying to throw much more expression than they could carry. 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. "The nurses," she answered. The hurricane had now reached its climax. ” He was intrigued. ‘That’s why I’m asking.
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