” Annabel’s hand stole into his. He was aware of Hilary, in company with Lucilla and the comtesse’s daughter some few yards away, listening in suddenly. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. 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. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done.
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