dot of a girl, to be so naugiles says stle tartar as you. you be good?
I morning I upturn my c and tread to t. Mrs Stiles trikes my face. to my uncles door.
of us. Good God, ?
Oful thing, sir!
Not more of break out, among the books?
But s ime at me. I stand very stiff, my face, my pale my shoulders.
At lengtakes off acles and closes o me, and very soft at to the bridge of his nose, and pinches.
ell, Maud, , tiles, and aff, all ing on your good manners. I ter to find you biddable. os s only to examine your c is , I tiless
is cool, hmm?
-edged, for cutting pages. oops and puts t against my face. ens me. as a girls. o see you , Maud. Indeed I am. Do you suppose I you t? It is you it, since you provoke it so. I t like to be struck.—t is cooler, is it not? urned the blade. I shiver. My bare arms
creep ing, s, on your good manners. ell, t, at Briar. e can , and , and again. Mrs Stiles and my staff are paid to do it; I am a sco it by nature. Look about you my collection. Do you suppose tient man? My books come to me sloedly passed many tedious ation of poorer volumes t mig; moves t of to a spot beneatilts up my face and looks it over. ts tucks tacles behind his ears.
I advise you to wiles, roublesome again.
Perer all, and may be broken. My uncle returns to o my se is not t of a is y of patience. tience so terrible as t of tics labour at endless tasks—conveying sand from one leaking cup into anoting titces in a sunbeam; filling invisible ledgers ing sums. lemen, and ricead of affs.—I cannot say. And of course, ts t come to me later, day, in my cs surface. But I see t it is dark, and kno it is silent—indeed, its substance is tance of ter or like wax.
Sruggle, it o itself, and I will drown.
I do not .
I cease struggling at all, and surrender myself to its viscid, circular currents.
t is t day, perion. But next day, at
eigutors me a desk and