Bête, she told herself fiercely. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate. 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. And yet—I love you. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. Annabel looked up and down the empty street, and then turned to her sister. ‘Yes, miss.
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