The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. Manning, with a baffling smile. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. 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.
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