“Well, anyhow, consider it open. "I want to speak to Edgeworth Bess myself. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. This heroine ruled an island which (in the '80s) was rich with shell—pearl-shell; and she fought pearl thievers and marauding beachcombers, fought them with weapons and with woman's guile. ” She smiled, sure of herself beyond any pretending, into his troubled eyes. 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 feel like a fraudulent trustee.
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