—and in spite of Ricormenting gaze—I feel tale amped, after all, ter ts place in my uncles collection. I leave t and go upstairs—go sloapping toes of my slippered feet against eacep. If I strike tand in darkness. o undress me I o suffer ouc suffer t toucailor.
And yet, even yield at last, to t of t lift and place t wo hers.
I o dream unspeakable dreams; and to imes sirs. Sometimes s. Go back to sleep, simes I do. Sometimes I dont. Sometimes I rise and go about times, take drops. I take drops, t; turn to sink, not into let only into more confusion. I tely read, to Rico my uncle: to me, noakes ongue—forced it rivingly—took s—opened tle—ttle cunt—
I cannot silence t see to gato s my kno make some sound, or movement; for wc sche bed is so dark.
Go to sleep, shick.
I feel my legs, very bare inside my go at he bed.
I say, Im afraid . . .
t is it? s Sue! If she were Agnes! If she were a girl in a book—!
Girls love easily, t is t.
ongue—
Do you think me good? I say.
Good, miss?
S felt like safety, once. No feeis like a trap. 1 say, I wisell me—
tell you w, miss?
tell me. tell me a o save you. A o save myself. tly black. hip, lip—
Girls love easily, there.
I is a do, on
And at first, it is easy. After all, t is done, in my uncles books: to embrace you. It is easy. I say my part, and stle prompting—says is easy, it is easy .. .
ts o mine.
I , before, tlemans still, dry lips against my gloved , insinuating kisses upon my palm. tly to mine, but t my face. I cannot see aste astes of sleep, sligoo sour. I part my lips—to breato s in breato dra, also. ongue comes betouches mine.
And at t, I s is like t of sometroubling of a slo
our damp mouto cling toget, to tear. Sing of a , and suppose it my o it is . Sly, to tremble.
tcement of of her.
Do you feel it? srangely in te darkness. Do you feel it?
I do. I fee