it up! Even so, I t beats suddenly
here are no ladies like me, however;
and for a second I ening picture of myself in
London, alone, unvisited—
But I am alone and unvisited, now. And I shall have Richard
to take us
a en—
Are you cold, miss? she says. Perhaps I have shivered. She rises,
to fetcche
carpet—he lines and diamonds and squares,
beneat.
I cc look too long, too narro seven oclock s ten ss me into my bed. After t, sands in my retcs ly sooping to pick up a fallen lace; noaking up s kneel and pray, as Agnes did. Ss on of my sig lifts : I see toe of one s to t doo undo ttons of s it fall, steps a of ; unlaces ays, rubs , sigeps a my o follow. Sgown— shy. She yawns. I also yawn. She
stretcretcs out , climbs into her bed—grows warm I suppose, and sleeps . . .
S of innocence. So did I, once. I a moment, take out my moture and close to my mouth.
ts s er now!
less it seems! But so vividly of, in years—of t ics; and of t once ttings of coir, a piece of text on t is to do t sent me. I remember an attic stair, a ness of lead beneatful drop to the ground—
I must fall into sleep, t plunge to t layers of t. But t quite quite draugging of tly be my form in t seems sing and queer—no say o s. I call for Agnes. I e forgotten t sten Ric. I call for Agnes, and it seems to me s so take a do it to punis take t! I say; but sakes it, serrible darkness and I , beyond tain. It seems to me t mucime passes before t comes back. But and sees my face, she screams.
Dont look at me! I cry. And t leave me! For I , if say, some calamity, some dreadful t kno, cannot name it—ed; and I—
or sne—o be freckled. I gaze at know her.
S is strange to me: Its Sue, miss. Only Sue. You see me? You are dreaming.
Dreaming?
Souc like Agnes, after all, but like— Like no-one. Ss Sue. t Agnes ina, and is gone back lie dont be ill.
I s; t once a