"It is with no small concern," writes an anonymous historian of Newgate, "that I am obliged to observe that the women in every ward of this prison are exceedingly worse than the worst of the men not only in respect to their mode of living, but more especially as to their conversation, which, to their great shame, is as profane and wicked as hell itself can possibly be. But just now there is nothing which you or anybody can do. Admire her as much as you choose—at a distance. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. ” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road. “Don’t come nearer!” she said. And empty. 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. She was the first to recover herself.
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