I sent my check for ten thousand; and it has cost me six thousand to find you. Presently. He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. 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 have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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