She had started wearing the dresses he bought for her, the white and blue shift he said, “brings out the color in your eyes”. The prisoner was then thrust in by Quilt. 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. As long as I live here, you stop fucking the children and you stop trying to fuck me. My goodness gracious. It was an impulse.
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