“Oh, but if only the register told my own secret, the truth about how this all began. For I had documented every victim in these pages, all but one: Frederick. The sharp, black lines of his name defaced only my sullen heart, my scarred womb.”

Though the register is a product of work begun out of Nella’s own experience of betrayal, early in the novel, she shows a willingness to separate—in print—her own emotional pain from that of her clients. This establishes Nella as a character who, though incredibly empathetic to the plight of other women, deems that certain pieces of herself must be sectioned off. Additionally, the statement of how Frederick’s name defaces her heart and womb also points to Nella’s belief that a body can be spoiled or rotted by action—either the actions of others or, as she reveals through her expressions of guilt over her occupation, the actions of oneself.

“I assured myself that the bailiffs would not come tonight, just as they had not come for the last two decades. My shop, like my poisons, was too cleverly disguised. No man would find this place; it was buried deep behind a cupboard wall at the base of a twisted alleyway in the darkest depths of London.”

As Nella prepares for Eliza’s arrival, her self-assurance acts as a supportive pillar, since the nature of her work requires her to live in a constant state of tension. The emotional burden of her secrecy must be cut through by her own mental effort and not the soothing of anyone else, stressing her isolation. This passage also draws a direct parallel between “man” and “bailiff,” speaking to the presence of censorious, antagonistic male threats in the novel. Additionally, though the shop may be too cleverly disguised and physically obscured to be found, Nella’s decision to tend to it demands that she live under that same veil of disguise and commit to that same physical obscurity, perpetuating her own isolation in the name of her work.