You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. 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 not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her.
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