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. "A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. Besides, by the time they were off his hands, old McClintock would be dropping in to have his liver renovated. Kneebone will excuse you. This horrible piece of deformity, who acted as drawer and cellarman, and was a constant butt to the small wits of the jail, was nicknamed the Black Dog of Newgate. Then she looked up at Brendon. We simply can’t get away. Before Jonathan followed he turned to face his assailants. Re-issued with new cover October 2013.
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