After all, that was life. " "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. "You read it, Ruth. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. I'm sorry. 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. That’s my opinion, if you ask me. "That is very kind of you, but I am on my way to America. “Shhh. “Michelle, it’s me, Lucy. I admit it.
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