de by a bayonet. No, as if pierced and made hollow.
My motrapped to a table.—No. I put my o my eyes. t part, per not t. My mot in to be mindful of I s.
Sainly, once t in a cell, says Ricime to time, for tisfaction of gentlemen.—ell, no more of t, just yet. Mrs Sucksbys eye. And you ainly kept in fear of follo do to you?—save make you anxious, obedient, careless of your os—in otly fit you to your uncles fancy? Didnt I tell you once, w a scoundrel he was?
You are aken.
No mistake, answers Mrs Sucksby.
You may be lying, even noh of you!
e may be. Saps you see, dear girl, .
My uncle, I say again. My uncles servants. Mr ay, Mrs Stiles . . .
But I say it, and I feel—t of a pressure—Mr ays s my ribs, iless my cheek:
une, surned out trash—/
I kno, I kno. I still to threw cups and saucers.
Damn t of my uncles bed, turn upon tell me, at Briar? Dont you t , and bring me o to trick and surprise me?
Surprise you? Maud, o do t.
I dont understand ry to. I am till of my uncle, my mots o the
mouts ticipation, I tion. I am t t t tomime, o let fly the fairies.
Mrs Sucksby ates, to a ss out a bottle. S tumblers t.
I suppose t of to; but a bit of brandy, meant for use noell me, w?
No all, says Rico me and, so confused am I—so dazed and enraged—I take it at once, and sip it as if it ches me swallow.
Got a good mouts, she says approvingly.
Got a moutheyre marked up, Medicine. hey, Maud?
I ans. I sit, at last, upon ten turning into nigs s are papered tern of floands out against t be, and buzzes in the glass.
I sit s run, but run uselessly. I do not ask—as I ory and I or told—I do not ask o do o profit from ting and stunning of me. I only rage, still, against my uncle. I only t mad, not mad . . .
I suppose my expression is a strange one. Ric me. Dont t t woman, Marianne.
I s, my fatleman? t an orpill live? Did he