I didn't understand then, but I do now. 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. He disappeared and she was finally convicted for past child abuse, but because she was diagnosed as schizophrenic they put her in a state mental ward instead of jail. I am bothered. The black, meantime, began to ply his hammer, and speedily unriveted the chains. She wrote it down. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it.
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