" So saying, he sprang, with a bound like that of a tiger-cat, against the throat of the woollen-draper. Our heads swim with the thought of being together. They set about everyone—everyone. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. 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. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing.
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