bank. Your consolation is to be mistress of Briar— is left to you, one by one.
As at at my o in its slipper. I times igo a form it longs to outgro quite still, to cing to kno my future at Briar—for I , long ago, already concluded for myself; but by t t elling it at all—t ted, and travelled, forty miles—t olen o t of to my dark room, to me.
Of to o er, ears on my c s—I t all.
I say, tomorrohinks Rowlandson a hack.
t is all I say. It is enoug smile—I t like to see suc. my fingers and tands, straig. t breaks t of place. I , you very late. You must be cold, and tired.
crengto groful. I s be troubled— too troubled—by all Ive said?
I s I am afraid to rise from tremble upon my legs and seem to him weak. I say, ill you go?
You are sure?
Quite sure. I ster if you leave me.
Of course.
o say more. I turn my face and let ime read upon t, tle opening and closing of t a moment, t my feet, tuck ts of my cloak about my legs, raise my y sofa cushion.
t my bed, and trait, my box, my maid—about me, t I like to tonig of tterns urbed. My liberty beckons: gaugeless, fearful, inevitable as death.
I sleep, and dream I am moving, sly, in a , upon a dark and silent er.