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. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. I've often regretted that I didn't investigate the matter. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. “Yes,” she answered, looking away. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. "The poor things!" The manager laughed. I'll call it my wedding gift.
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