"I didn't mean it," she said, "it wasn't something I wanted, it wasn't what I meant; it was the awfulness, the darkness which I could not bear; I was not meant to be here, this was not meant to happen or at least not happen to me," and she continued to protest all up and down the long and febrile corridors of her resistance as she was carried here and carried there, carried hither and back in the vast and sculpting spaces of the unknown, intolerable craft, expelled at last finally into what could have been space, the austere and unimpeachable spaces of Whitechapel in a paralyzing winter dawn and the monstrous hands upon her no longer those of the reconstruct Holmes, the soulless and safe technicians but of that most drastic prince of reconstructions and excavations, exculpation and revenge as he tore her here, tore her there, tore and lovingly removed from those cavities themselves like the blackness between the stars the most precious and secret parts of her, under the implacable witness of a Holmes who could not save her because he--like the ship, the crew, the cargo, the sunken and dread passage itself--had been given neither blood nor life under that tent of night, that reconstruct of life under the large tent of lost plausibility and prayer.