My politics in that matter wouldn’t be to give women votes. Ramage!” she began, and his mouth sealed hers and his breath was mixed with her breath. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. 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. You mustn't go by what you read so much as by what you see and hear.
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