‘Lucky I have you to keep me from Bedlam, then. He closed the door. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. She turned her head to each side. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned.
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