She was no longer there. Babies and females have got to keep hold of somebody or go under—anyhow, for the next few generations. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. 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. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. P. " "That's well!" cried Jack.
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