ding me at last. S you out ?
ill you go for me, Dainty? But Im not to leave you, miss!
I must keep il Mrs Sucksby comes! But say t Jo! Or say I she door
is bolted! ters. And t of drawers, you
say?
top-most dra. ill you
ust make myself neat, and take it so
badly—
All right.
Be quick!
All right!
o t, tc and run. I run out of to t—I remember ttles, t me. But I run furty pat before; but I see it, and kno—I kno!—it leads to an alley and turn, leads to anotreet and leads me— recognise, t runs under t remember it nearer, lower. I recall a here is no wall here.
No matter. Keep going. Keep t your back, and run. take , and are dark, you must not get caugter t t and ao you. No matter t London is loud. No matter t tter t tare—no matter t t;
t tter t your slippers are silk, t your feet are cut by every stone and cinder—
So I myself into t is only my e, my distraction—t, and per makes t t me, and snaps at my skirt. I time—to see me stagger. You, I say, my side, ell me, ? o reet?—but at they fall back.
I go more slo, treets beyond t I go? I ; for no streets and streets better if I gro? I am lost already . . .
t t, dark and ips of broken roofs, its gold cross gleaming, t Pauls. I kno, from illustrations; and I treet is near it. I turn, pick up my skirts, make for it. t t seems! turns green, t stumble. I ed a street, a square. Instead, I am at top of a set of crooked stairs, leading doo filter. I Pauls is close, after all; but tween us.
I stand and gaze at it, in a sort of of a Briar. I remember seeing it seem to fret and its banks: I t it longed—as I did—to quicken, to spread. I did not kno o t flos surface is littered ter—earings of cloth cork
and tilting bottles. It moves, not as a river moves, but as a sea: it breaks, against ts, and tairs and t rise from it, it froths like sour milk.
It is an agony of er and of e; but t, confident as rats