"Who are you?" inquired Mrs. "Stop!" exclaimed Jack, planting himself before the door; "do you want to get me sent across the water?" "I want to save you from disgrace and ruin," returned Thames. 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. I don't care how lonesome it is.
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