Take my word for it, your troubles are over. General Lord Charvill disinherited him for his pains. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. And he unsheathed his sword. 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.
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