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You may go back, Marthe. Only promise me to amend—to quit your vile companions—and I will forgive you—will bless you. She stood up before him, smiling faintly. Caliban sarch ebery hole in de place, but Shack no dere. 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. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image.
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