ll o ted?
ed me himself!
to taken over by anot o be the case.
I move aand irely. of engine, for texts.
All t like it, w say and makes her?
No of t my fingers to my eyes. Dont be tiresome, Ric, how?
home . . .
t seems to stumble, t again t is be quite make out ly, I so you, in a madhouse.
You are no use to me noired of t be kind to you, then.
And is this kindness? I say.
e last, into s is , amused, amazed. anything else?
e stop, close as ss. one again, but e time, o be afraid of him.
urns and calls to Sue. Not far no to me es h her, alone.
to secure her, I say. As you have me.
t , sticks better.—? I suspect suppose e? I so see o find out o me, today or tomorro some way, will you? Be sly.
s ained finger to ly Sue comes, and rests at my side. S of till billoo drao toucidy o, I turn away.
Next morning I ake o ligte from; and I stand my dressing-room curned from me, but ract, o say. tte and stands ; the clinging red soil from his shoes.
After t, I feel ting pressure of our plot as I t feel training of cets, tropical storms. I ! today I and let t, puncture today, I him claim me—!
But, I do not. I look at Sue, and t s darkness—a panic, I suppose it, a simple fear—a quaking, a caving—a dropping, as into th of madness—
Madness, my mots slo in me! t t makes me more frig. I take, for a day or t c.
You groo my library, to abuse it?
No, Uncle.
? Do you mumble?
No, sir.
s and purses udies me one is strange to me.
age are you? ate. . Dont strike coy attitudes age are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?—You may sonis. You to the passage of years, because I am a scholar? hmm?
I am seventeen, Uncle.
Seventeen. A troublesome age, if o believe our own books.
Yes, sir.
Yes, Maud. Only remember: your business is not udy. Remember t too great a girl— nor am I too aged a sco iles come a