I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. McClintock would be on hand to tell her how and where to obtain this freedom. Free, there is nothing left to her but the canal. It was really most vivid, most vivid! You seemed to be slipping and just going to tumble and holding on. 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. "A secret is too valuable a commodity to be thrown away.
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