aking bites of bread and sips of coffee, and once
rubbing for a minute at a spot upon te!
I sa mark, til t came to take tray ao e again—so a neer, as I put coal on t te, and they looked like gloves for a doll.
Sainly, t you Lant Street? I did not t ty lonely, and pretty bookis be, in a ? to tening rain, but so go out ood at ttle black press, looking over s, s and s. t killed nearly an s w. her hands upon mine and said,
Be slower. o here?
S her eyes were sad. I said, No, miss.
In t on a pale grey cloak, and over tens. Stle leat ready, t tle of er, and scissors: s saying to cut flo staircase to to ts. outside ood blinking, our our eyes against tery sun. t sa, at nighe
fog and I so say it seemed less grim seemed nos cs roof s. It ains t of trunks of ivy. It front door, split do rain o press , and e sideo leave t all.
It o see epping out of t gloomy place, like a pearl coming out of an oyster.
It o cer s at her back.
But t muco stay for, out in t avenue of trees, t led up to t of gravel t t in. t grely nettles; and an overgro ttle stone cross to tand and gaze at til s tarted a muddy lane, t led you to a s-up old red c, quietest place I ever sao go to it, but Maud took t en. For at t one tomb, t her.
S and look at t for an a time, for gat only for keeping do gre it; and ters of lead s o take off stains.
Sil me first day, wried, she said,
It is a daugy, to tend to t ch me.
So I left o it, and ombs. ts made it ring. I of my o give graves to murderesses. t their bodies in quicklime.
Did you ever pour salt on to do it, and to see to me once,
Your mot. Sen men died t smelt it!
again. I took up a pair of kitc to . And thing!
I wondered bad blood flowed in me.
But s to ask. S, gazing amped my feet. t last s her, passed her hand across her eyes, and drew up her hood.
ts tle further.
So t ran alongside a took y