Jack was caught, as in a trap, by the pendant tails of Abraham's long frock; and, instead of obtaining his release by his ingenuity, he only got a sound thrashing. Jack, whose back was towards it, did not see it; but he heard, from the pitying exclamations of the crowd, that it was in view. 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 used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth.
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