My name, in trinder. Noo an end.

        took every one of us, save Dainty. took us, a us in gaol    Street kitcas us in separate cells, and every day t of questions.

        o you?

        I said he was a friend of Mrs Sucksbys.

        Been long, at Lant Street?

        I said I here.

        did you see, on t of the crime?

        umbled. Sometimes it seemed to me t I ake up times I even seemed to remember seeing . I knoop, I knoter of tepped aleman started to stagger. But Mrs Sucksby here,

        too, simes I t it    I told trut I did not kno matter, any need me. Oook us, t me go.

        t longer.

        Mr Ibbs e first. rial lasted er all, not on at of t lying about tcoo good at taking tampings off, for t—but for tes in te box. t turned out, c Mr Ibbss s P remember, erm in gaol, at any cost—to plant tes on o olen goods:    to Pentonville. Of course,    be supposed to ime among t t, eful to get ara sside, urned against ime    to visit er    in.     do me so queerly, I could not bear it. I didnt go again.

        er, poor t Lant Street, al. too great a shock for her; and she died.

        Jo be pio any crime, save—t—to t old one of dog-stealing.    off s in toto flog    tras above    after, y met    the prison

        gate, and    o    s    off from Lant Street.

        I never spoke to ook a room for y in anot out of my -room, at Mrs Sucksbys trial.

        trial came up very quick. I spent ts before it at Lant Street, lying aimes Dainty came back, to sleep beside me and keep me pany. S of all my old pals, , before—t I    came out t I aken t room, in t seemed a sneaking sort of    a    of talked about my mot flo say I         ter all; and Mrs Sucksby— bad—aken the blame . . .

        in to me.

        At any otime it    care. I , and t o see Mrs Sucksby as often as I could. t all my days tting on tep outside te, oo early to be let in; talking o plead . Some pal of Mr Ibbss o    sort of villains from t old me, ly, t our case    he sake of her age.

        More t could be proved s?

        ted to it. ?

        I did not kno anse of tepping into treet and calling out for a cab-man; and Id c my , and ttle of    of people, tones be, er t ougo    times I op, and remember Gentleman, gripping tomac our oo say it, noo everyone I sach me . . .?

        I eers; if I o e, and o. I o be judge; if I o find it. But I did not.    little fort I got, I got at Mrs Sucksbys side; and t    least . I got to spend more time t to    me younger and less of a ser, te to Mrs Sucksbys cell; and every time, s udy my face, lance beyond my sroubled look—as if, I t, not quite believing t me e again a to let me stay.

        try at a smile. Dear girl. Quite alone?

        Quite alone, Id answer.

        ts good, ser.a moment, taking my    it? Just you as good.

        So sit    like to talk.    first Id ake back ory, my    her I feared shed grow ill.

        No more, s about t, ts all. I dont    to    it.

        So t dander of , and only smooto groime I saw    e

        untouc of t    me, more t seemed to me t everyt    rigo be     Lant Street, on finding a la all t I could make no on little diso try a -puddings. Oook    remember time s me in old me about Nancy from Oliver t. I dont took it a distractedly aside, saying sry it later, like sold me to save my money. So them.

        Many times simes so speak on some ater; but al t, surn tter aside and it . If t roubled by queer ideas, and doubts—I kept quiet as s time alked instead of me—of ure.

        Youll keep up t Lant Street? shed say.

        ont I! Id answer.

        You    think of leaving?

        Leaving? o keep it ready, against t you out. . .

        I did not tell    ser,    tell    neig off calling; t a girl to me; t people—strangers—and, for    a time, at tleman    say y, to take tain from ts of er     up, because tant scrubbing began to lift turn the pale

        tell ures on ts upoes, t reaks and splaslemans blood.

        And I did not say    and scrubbed tctle reminders of my old life—dog-s on to mark my    as I gre every one.

        At nig, I dreamed of murder. I dreamed I killed a man, and o reets of London oo small to . I dreamed of Gentleman. I dreamed I met    ttle red c Briar and omb of omb , and I    cut to fit; and every nig to    ime, just as t done, some queer disaster en in my fingers; t—t—I could not make, never make in time . . .

        too late, Gentleman would say.

        Oime the voice was Mauds.

        too late.

        I looked, but could not see her.

        I    seen    t Gentleman died. I didnt kno into tie sa. I , from t t , lemans o do o let ic, or w. Dr Cie said only o examine

        ill couldnt go near batubs. But    o stagger and groion, to find ly cured. ails of    lots of s out of it, I te made une.

        Maud    at liberty, ter t, so vaniso Briar. I kno Street. I supposed oo afraid!—for of course, I led her if she had.

        I did : Peromorrow . . .

        But, as I    came instead, rial. It came in t. t on blazing all t a—being packed co ter on to try and cool it. I sat y. Id    sit in t t. t alone, and    cuffs on    made    yello    against t. S came up, and sara o see ried. t my face among t, more easy. o mine, after t, as t on—too, about t, as if in searc t, however, her gaze would always fall.

        abbed Gentleman in a moment of anger, m a quarrel over money ing of her room.

        Sting of rooms? asked ting lawyer.

        Yes, she said.

        And not from tolen goods, or ts?

        No.

        t io say t different times,    bits of poke; and—orse—found women w erwards died . . .

        t    like a clerks, and bed and s t took pla t Street kitig in take t! And    least a minute, before she did.

        At least a mie sure? You kno t clock, tc of t;

        e all c s fell still, to do it. I never knee so long. t John.

        As long as t? he said.

        Joo cry. Yes, sir, ears.

        t t, for o say it    in murmurs    be sure to note    naturally    it    t made Gentlemans ory about t—

        I nearly started out of my seat,    Mrs Sucksbys eye. S me to be silent, I fell back; and it never came out t t because s, but because I o tand. Mrs Sucksby    let t    so hard, and shook so

        badly, t.    back to ys.

        No-one old about me, and Maud. No-oioned Briar or old Mr Lilly. No-one came foro say t Gentleman    ried to rob    erfeit stock. t t    young ma Mrs Sucksby    t    s to trial—and youll never believe it, but it turned out t all ales of being a gentlemans son    off ter taug Ric .

        ture in to    it out and    o ts.

        But    picture—and , and of vices, and sordid trades— it seemed to me as t be talking of sometirely, not of Gentleman, being , by mistake, in my oc. Even ed, and g ready to run    as soon as it came; even ood and gave back t God    as you    so many dark and sentlemen speaking so many grave and monotonous    and t and the lives of people like me and Mrs Sucksby.

        t    and    and colour , already. S    t, and I rose, and lifted my    s my eye, and     about the room, as if looking for

        someone or somet settled and seemed to clear, and I follo and picked out, at tc s putting do ing to see ell you t fle fle. Sting alone. S of sign—to me, I mean; and o Mrs Sucksby.

        to o sy o    Mrs Sucksby again, ; and when I looked for Maud, she had gone.

        t passed after t I remember, no a    all, but as a single great endless day. It    sleep—for    take as of Mrs Sucksby,    ,    darkness—for t lig burned all t; and in t be    lig Lant Street—every lig I could borro alone,    and c be ill at my side. I e. I    o o o be o walk slowly back,    here.

        trons    t stout    Dr Cies, and tco start up ace find it in my    to like ts—for surely, if truly    Mrs Sucksby go? Io e and hang her.

        I tried not to t, her, like before, I

        found I could not t, could not believe it. , I t say. I kno to    some    sold me o like not to speak at all, only to feel tle oo,    me imes to grohings unsaid . . .

        But so me, t s for me to remember; and t —time I ever sao    almost breaking, and t I s t, s    o my aking t aing it fall, until it lay across     to curl it. It seemed to me t I s enough, ever again.

        you? I said.

        I felt some tremor pass tter, dear girl, sh me.

        No!

        Ster, by far.

        ? ayed leman to Briar— O your side!

        I , and    again.

        roked my    my side. But I sat a    be a c last . ttle    in trips of sunlige flags of t could creep like t. It crept, like fingers. And    from one o a the

        matroo lay s time, s?

        e stood. I looked at Mrs Sucksby. ill, but , o tremble.

        Dear Sue, so me— So     my ear. It    tc mig dre say it! I t.—t kno    say it! Sigorrohink back—

        I , error,    o ron I suppose must ouc umbling, into te.—I dont recall.    I remember    is passing turning a    till shere . . .

        t, but not tron at my side. She nodded.

        One of em, s me. this m

        I only er oo dazed and miserable to    of trance, back to Lant Street—only keeping, as muco t of t to Mr Ibbss sep—to t,    t kicked tood a mio get my breato look about me—at ter, streaked ; and

        tools and key-blanks, t    tain, t    torn from its loops and csteps cime—I couldnt say and, and coals and ders still lay scattered on t seemed too ordinary a to do, to s t; and anyorn up boards. Under seemed dark, till y: t beloer s, ales and wriggling worms.

        table o t and sat at it, in Mrs Sucksbys old c—poor C barked since Mr Ibbs    ail, and came a me tug    th his head on his paws.

        I sat, as still and quiet as    an y came. S us a supper. I didnt    it, a solen a purse to buy it, and so I got out boe it sloime, as    tcel—t eadily tig, tig a feo feel t to feel eace, eac you let me stay? said Dainty, ime fo. It dont seem rig I said t t ; and finally s; and t    me and C us. I lit more lig of Mrs Sucksby, in    cell. I t of    t cea, lifting up    kiss it. I t of ,    seemed to me, t icked before. I put my able, upon my arms. ired I    . I meant to keep a I closed my eyes, and slept.

        I slept, for once,    dreaming; and I ramping and scuffing of feet, and treet outside. I t, in my    must be a oday, t be a fair.    day is it?—t o puddles of s; but t of t o be ime. to o get tc Street first, for a look at the house.

        t on. as it ical spot. t and so ed in it.—t against ifled babies.—t.—Puts you into a creep, dont it?— Serves .—they say—

        top a minute, and to ttled tcood at tried to see tters; but I kept everyt. I dont kno us in! A s of tabbed, e back to    you!—but I t to tease t to tease me. I ed to    close at my side, and sarted and tried to bark, tle.—At last I took airs,    ter a ill; and t    meant t ts for c    time. I left C set of stairs alone—climbed tood at ttic door, afraid to go in. tand, t of oil-clotacked to t time I had e here,

        Gentleman y and Joairs. I ood at t my to t turn to dirty er. Mrs Sucksby roked my    to t, and looked, and almost sreets of t y t, and filled anding in topping traffid besides to posts and trees and cter vie o keep turned one way.

        t te of t. A man , examining the drop.

        I sa calm, feeling almost sick. I remembered o me: t I sc I s. It seemed suctle to bear, pared    s suffer . . . esting t. tretc see. I began to be afraid. Still I t,    I co till I said to myself, I    for    else    I do for    this?

        But I said it; and teady striking of ten oclock. t tood doo teps    of t do it. I put my back to th my hands.

        I kne rose up from treets. t at triking of tart up s—t, I ker. s greant, turned again, moved

        faster, like a sreets: t out: s off!, and s of dreadful laug rying to see rangers eyes straining out of ts to see    being able to look, myself; but I could not, I could not. I could not turn, or tear ting en. I er urmurs and calls for    meant t on, and on. My os seemed to fill it. till travelling about treets, ots of ts t    t— broke out in an uneasy sort of murmur. t taken up by every t—turo somet meant t to t tying ting, about he noose . . .

        And t—just a single moment, less time t takes to say it—of perfect, aillness: of topping of babies cries, to s and open mout: t be, t be, t, t— And, , too soon, too quick, ttle of t fell—ts lengtomac .

        No for a sed. I opeurned, and sa Mrs Sucksby, not Mrs Sucksby at all, but o look like a    and a go uffed raw—-

        I moved a    to t. topped t. ts, more cries, more dreadful laugo cheer myself,

        at ot . Noened as t up, and it seemed to me, even in my grief, t I uood. S as . Shes dead—and were alive.

        Dainty came again t nig me a any of it. e only    togetalked of o tc off to climb it. I    didnt say t to Dainty. S t, said t it rue, after all,     t, o dropping    Mrs Sucksby had held herself very boldly, and died very game.

        I remembered t dangling tailors figure, gripped tigs corset and gown; and I wondered .

        But t    to be t on. to see to, no folloo look about me, ; to uand t t make my o, quite alone. I    on t: a man y bared     us alone si knoo take it. But I kneime. I kne, I supposed, take a regular job, at a dairy, a dyers, a furriers— t of it, however, made

        me    to be sick. Everybody in my    regular ay crooked. Dainty said sreet-ted a fourt s, not quite catc street-tty poor lay, pared to o.

        But it    mig t for finding out anytter. I    t or t for anyt all. Bit by bit, everyt    at Lant Street ill    dress I ry!—and no looked    Dr Cies, and till. Dainty said I    so ston, you could h me.

        And so, uff I ed to take o ool of t to call on, to say good-bye to, I could not t do, before I ; and t hings, from horsemonger Lane.

        I took Dainty    t I could bear it all alone. e , one day iember—more ter trial. London urned, and t last. treets    and stra ter t me t me, I t, in pity. So did trons. tied rings. Released, to Dauge in a book; and t my e my name quick as anyone    Dr Cies . . . tone upon her grave, so no-one could e and mourn her; and

        took me out ue, s lo roof,    roof every day of t o to say goodbye, to take my    give it.

        t. I carried it    of dread; and to make it ime I reac Street, I    staggering: I    quickly    to tcable, a do and look at all    of    be inside: ogs, perill in toes and ticoats; — Dont do it! I t. Leave it! ! Open it some otime, not today, not now—.

        I sat, and looked at Dainty.

        Dainty, I said, I dont think I .

        S her hand over mine.

        I t to, ser    our mots back from t t packet in a dra look at it for nearly a year; a peris to noter on to remember Mot all; save a little che end, fin-money . . .

        I sa face ears.

        All rig. Ill do it.

        My ill so me and tried to undo its strings, I found trooo tigy tried. S undo t time, after Gentleman died, o look at any kind of blade,    ake t a single s me—in tugged and picked at ts again, but no damp. At last,

        I lifted to my moutook s eetrings unravelled and t of its folds. I started back. Mrs Sucksbys sticoats and b came tumbling out upon table-top, looking just as I ar, came affeta gown.

        I    t of t.    I? It    t looked like Mrs Sucksby    of sill o its breast. Someone —I didnt care about t—but t        poaffeta itself iff. t rusty. t raced about e: t, and ain h chalk.

        to me like marks on Mrs Sucksbys own body.

        Oy, I said, I t bear it! Fetcer, o rub. Dainty rubbed, too. e rubbed in t    t. t up to me and began to .

        And, as I did, tling, sound.

        Dainty put do? s knohe sound came again.

        Is it a moty. Is it flapping about, inside?

        I s t sounds like a paper. Perrons    somethere

        But , and looked i all. tling came again,    seemed to me t it came from part of t part of t of t    my o it, a about. taffeta tiff—stiff not just from taining of Gentlemans blood, but from somet

        stuck, or been put, be, bet and tin lining of t ? I could not tell, from feeling. So tur, and looked at tin     to fray. It made a sort of pocket, in t Dainty; t in my    rustled again, and she drew back.

        Are you sure it aint a mot?

        But    ter. Mrs Sucksby     guess. I t at first t s    it t sten it, in gaol—t it o find, after t made me nervous. But tter lemans blood; and so must     least. t seemed to me t it must : for as I looked more closely at it I sa. taffeta bodice , tig ays. the seal—

        I looked at Dainty. t? ter, so close, so carefully, so long—a not read it? I tur in my    tion. here? I said.    you see?

        Dainty looked, t you? s I could not. ing ly smeared and spotted ains, I    to tter close to t seemed to me at last t if any en t    an S, and t follo; and then, again, an s—

        I gre? said Dainty, seeing my face.

        I dont knoters for me.

        S o her! she said.

        My mother?

        to open it.

        I dont know.

        But say it tells you— Say it tells you s a map!

        I didnt t    my stomac tter, at t, I said. Dainty licked ook it, slour, and slo, I tumbling of to t words, she said.

        I    to    so nervous and afraid—so sure t tter    for me, yet o some a till, to    open before me, not being able to uand    said, hing.

        e on, I said to Dainty. I got , and found mine. e out to treet, and o read it for us.

        e    t ask anyone I kneranger. So    nort fast, toray on a string about meg-graters and t    knoelligent look.

        I said,hell do.

        a grater, girls?

        I seo say, for taken te from me. I put my o my . Do you read? I asked    last.

        he said, Read?

        Letters, in ladies    books, I mean.

        tilted his head.

        -anyone

        to be opened, eent t.    notice. Instead, raig in my line,    o stand    letters. t aint a-going to make t. . .?

        Some people    y did the same.

        Sevenpence, I said, ogeturhey good? Good enough, I said.

        . ook t s see,    up, tung by t not    it to e out later, as ouc. . .     ready to read.

        All t are there, I said, as he did. Every one. Do you hear?

        o be opened oer, Susan Lilly—

        I put trinder, I said. Susan trinder, you mean. You are reading it wrong.

        Susan Lilly, it says,    up, nourn it. s t, I said, if you aint going to read here . . .?

        But my voice    to    my , a s ight.

        e oing, t is it? A , or a testament? t statement— t Lant Street, Soutember 1844, in topped.    of voice. , tiff stuff, aint it?

        I did not ans tains.

        Per. No , all rigs see. s    closer. 7, Marianne Lilly, of—? Bear    my o daug about? ts better——o t srue birto be made k 1862; on o e fortune.

        In exto my care er MAUD— Bless me, if you aint doing it again!    nice, t you?—dear daug s of il tioned date; on    is my desire t to une.

        to be a true and legally binding statement of my    beto be reised in Law.

        Susan Lilly to kno t srove to keep her from care.

        Maud Sucksby to be raised a gentleo knell me t     , mind, I s    more.— going to faint, are you?

        I c ray. ers    sliding. Noake care, do! ock, look, going to tumble a mashed—

        Dainty came and caught me. I am sorry, I said. I am sorry.

        All rig ters straight.

        Yes.

        e as a s?

        I s remember—and

        gripped tter, and stumbled from y, I said. Dainty—

        S me do a ? s did it mean?

        till looked. I s er, he called.

        But I didnt    er, and I    let Dainty go. I clute and put my face against o so sed lock must sumblers lift against t is forced loose and flies. My mot finis oo muco say— too muo believe it. I t of ture of t Briar. I t of t Maud o rub and trim. I t of Maud, and Mrs Sucksby; and tleman. O! , too. Noo tell me, at t t so long?    my mot a murderess, su s to be split . . .

        // you shink back—

        I t, and t; and began to gro tter before my fad groaill stood a little cood coo. Drunk, is s t,    a spoon in ongue. I could not bear ty and got to my feet; s    me and agger o drink. S me at table. Mrs Sucksbys dress still lay upon it: I took it up and    in my ts, and s folds; t, and cast it to t tter, and looked again at t to my feet and began to walk.

        Dainty, I said in a sort of pant, as I did. Dainty, s have

        klemans side, kno last to— O me t plad bring    was only ever Maud sed. S me safe, and gave me up, so Maud, so Maud—

        But till. I arting up ting me e    me, to save me kno...

        I put my    out y began to oo.

        is it? s is it?

        t tears. t thing of all!

        I sa, sning in a sky of black. Maud ried to save me, and I    knoo kill ime—

        And I let ting up and . here is she, now?

        y, almost shrieking.

        Maud!I said. Oh, Maud!

        Miss Lilly?

        Miss Sucksby, call o t s    you all in o time wood, pinning up urned— If I had known— I would have kissed her—

        Kissed y.

        Kissed y, you would oo! Anyone would! S hrown her away—!

        So I    on. Dainty tried to calm me, and could not. I    last, I sank and    rise. Dainty    and pleaded—took up er and t in my face— ran doreet to a le of salts; but I lay, as if dead. I    sick. I    si a moment, like t.

        So my old room and put me to sleep in my oo take my goalked like a madartan, and india-rubber boots, and—most especially—of sometaken, t I s. ? s? O so often, so pitifully, s me all my t finally s of my goe creased and blad bitten; and t ook it from    and    over it as if my    would break.

        I dont remember. I kept in a fever for nearly a er t so feeble I migill. Dainty nursed me, all t time—feediea and soups and gruels, lifting me so I mig,    from my face. I still , and cursed and ted,    I    more, ime I     of dam about my , keeping out my love: no, my     I s gre seemed to me at last t I    o Dainty; Id say it, over and over. But Id say it steadily—in a ; t back my strengt    I mean to find    care if it takes me all my life. Ill find , and tell    I kno be married! I dont care. Ill find ell ;

        It    of. I ing, to be art. And at last I t I ed enoug o seem to tilt and turn, ill. I o take o oolter, and tucked it into my goy t I

        must o my fever. t I o cry.

        ? s to start my searc Briar. But    t, s    y minutes. c , so long ago, in tarc s use to bury ake it. I kissed    know . . .

        And so I left time, and made to Briar, ain. time. train ran smoot Marlo me o take t ttle bag I ? And t time: Is no-one e to meet you?

        I said I opped to rest on a stile, and a man and a girl    by, , and t me and must    I oo: for t me sit on t. t    about my shoulders.

        Going far? he said.

        I said I o Briar, they could drop me anywhere near Briar—

        to Briar! t. But, w you know?

        Nobody t    to be fed off a spoon. tleman! they said. he

        of    terrible . tank, in t t run off leman—did you kno t?—I didnt anso nurse e s up.

        So Maud urned my c it doo ting of t. I said,

        And t    o her?

        But t know. Some people said so o France . . .

        Planning on visiting one of ts,    my print dress. tsve all gooo.—All go one, o keep t. S like ed, now.

        . But I ed bloo suffer to Marlo t must be Mr ay. I t, Ill find ell me where shes gone . . .

        So t me doarted; and from t. t    ting to creep and rise. t it in illiam Irap: I    like an    marked te, and t. I quied my step—but t quite sank. t up and dark. tes ened    ruck t made a lo of moaning sound. And o tes and pushey creaked and creaked.

        Mr ay! I called. Mr ay! Anyone!

        My voice made a dozen black birds start out of t, Surely t    it didnt: t caime; and no-one came. So t t o keep out co, Its not against th.

        toget my back, arted up again. Still no-one came, though.

        I gave it a mio walk.

        It seemed quieter i er, and queer. I kept to trees seem to , and g to my skirt. er. oo, and parc beaten about    urning to slime at its tips, and smelt peculiar. I t. Pers. I hem scurrying as I walked.

        I began to go quicker. to climb. I remembered driving along it    urned, and ; but it still made me start, to e so suddenly upon to see it seem to rise out of topped, on t afraid. It ly quiet and dark. ttered. t its    front door—t    leaves. It seemed like a    meant for people but fs.

        I remembered, suddenly,    it being ed . . .

        t made me s me—back, to dark and tangled o take    back my ting rain. till c, If I    only find Mr ay! o o to tables and yards. I    carefully, for my steps sounded loud. But     as quiet ay as everyed barking. table doors     tuck, t cime I    , I t range. Mr ay! I called—but I called it softly. It seemed o call out, here. Mr ay! Mr ay!

        t gave me . I    to tcapped. No a to t I    nig    around to t again. I    to a er, and looked inside. I could not see. I put my o to give against its bolt... I ated for almost a mi fles screed myself up on to the sill, and jumped inside.

        tood, quite still. t must    if Mr ay    and came    like a burglar, no of my mot . I began to ly about. t. I    I o try and imagine Maud, as s,

        o imagile bites sake at ... I stepped to table. It ill set, icks, a knife and a fork, a plate of apples; but it    and cobted. tal glass,    the rim.

        t t    still, , it moved perfectly silently. All tly, in t y carpet, t smoteps.

        So    o to it and looked i room e. t t Mr Lilly aleman must oo listen , t I imagiing t voice.

        I fot to t Mr ay, remembering t. I fot to t     of. I    to go doo tcead I    slo t door. I climbed tairs. I ed to go to ed to stand,    t ted to lie upoo t her . . .

        I    as a g ly, not minding tears as tears enougime o tanding part-ures ill , s one glass eye and poieet of    my fio it, t time I came for Maud. I ed outside t of    so fiercely of it, it seemed

        to me at last t I could almost . I could    as a he house.

        I caugopped, tarted again. It    in my o came, from to sed after all. Or pero t a trembling o it, and pus open. tood, and bli    bare of books. A little fire burned in te. I puss lamp .

        And in t, was Maud.

        Sting, ing. Surned . o a froce a lied turned and tur, as if not sure o put . Again s h.

        te again; and to dip , sg.

        S start. Sly still. S cry out. S say anyt first. S onis on ook a step; and as I did, s to , letting t roll across to te. So take    migo fall, or sep, s harder.

        o kill me?

        S, in a sort of a just from astonis, but also from fear. t errible. I turned away, and hid my own face

        in my    ill , from my falling tears. Noears came and made it ter. Oh, Maud! I said- Oh, Maud!

        I o , I er everyt trangeness of it. I pressed my fingers o my eyes. I    ago, of . I    to find , to e upon    oo much.

        I dont— I said. I t— S e. Sood, still ill gripping teadily. there er, I said. I found a paper, hidden in Mrs Sucksbys gown . . .

        I felt tter, stiff, in my o s ans—and sa s paper it , and    said. Despite myself, I    of ing bier t a single moment; and    left me    to t sit upon to read it to me. And t sick.

        I am sorry, she said. Sue, I am sorry.

        Sill did not e to me, though. I wiped my face again.

        I said, I got a lift here was nobody here, save Mr ay—

        Mr ay? She frowned. Mr ay is gone -

        A servant, they said.

        illiam I . ays s all.

        Only t    me, and s you groened?

        S    o be frightened of, rnow?

        to to trie    first. ly.

        us, about— Did you kno tart?0

        Sly, too. Not t until Rie to London. t lifted old.

        Not before? I said.

        Not before.

        tricked you, too, then.

        I so t, ono errible t nine monte,    myself sink against t my c till. It struck t c brangled    make out ted roof of ttle red chapel.

        My moto look at    my mother was a murderess.

        I t my motead—

        S say it.    yet. But I turo look at her again, and swallowed, and said,

        You    to see    trons words.

        She nodded. She spoke of you, she said.

        Of me?    did she say?

        t s s en times over, before you s s t to make you a onplace girl. t t aking a je. t dust falls away

        I closed my eyes.    last e closer.

        Sue, shis house is yours.

        I dont    it, I said.

        t, if you wis. You shall be rich.

        I dont    to be riced to.be ric—

        But I ated. My    oo full. oo close, too clear. I t —not at trial, but on t t Gentlemaered. t glitter no it bad tied it    tremble. ts and smudges of ink. , too, from    quite to t    faste t. t    undone. I saing of    be. I looked away.

        to her eyes.

        I only    you, I said.

        took ao me and almost, almost reac turned and lo t o the paper and pen.

        You do not knohings—

        S go on.    t ans closer to    things?

        My uncle— s me good. Didnt you? I . I    tle    to took up a book. S, tigo ; turned and broug to me. S up in tle. And t voice so read.

        eous ned bare ivory s my bosom in wild fusion—

        ? I said.

        S ans look up; but tur page and read from another.

        I scarcely kne; everytive exertion—tongues, lips, bellies, arms, ttoms, every part in voluptuous motion.

        Now my own c? I said, in a whisper.

        Surned more pages, read again.

        Quickly my daring    secret treasure, regardless of    plaints, ed into the covered way of love—

        Sopped.    ing    . My oing ratill not quite uanding:

        Your uncles books?

        She nodded.

        All, like this?

        She nodded again.

        Every one of this? Are you sure?

        Quite sure.

        I took t t on t looked like any book o me. So I put it do to t looked took up anot ures. You never saures like t Maud, and my    seemed to shrink.

        You kne all, I said. ts t t. You said t you kneime—

        I did knohing, she said.

        You kne all! You made me kiss you. You made me    to kiss you again! ime, you had been ing here and—

        My voice broke off. Sc of times I o t of o gentlemen—to Gentleman—ing tarts and custards iles and Mr ay. I put my o my . It ig    me.

        Oo to cry. to to my mout t ill    it a drop as if it burned me. Oh!

        It ood very still,    the smears of ink on her fingers.

        ?

        S answer.

        to t sod! Oinking oo good for o look at you and see you ill    you—!

        I gazed across ted to smas to o dra any otime I should have called proud.

        Dont pity me, s I am still    my living.

        S I e on. till damp. I asked a friend of my uncles, once, s e for    me to a ressed gentle e suc, I am not a lady

        I looked at    uanding. I looked at t missed its beat.

        You are ing books, like    speaking.    kno! I said. I t believe it. Of all t Id find you— And to find you    house—

        I am not alone, sold you: I o care for me.

        to find you ing books like t?-V

        Again, s proud.    I? she said.

        I did not kno just dont seem right, I said. A girl, like you—

        Like me? there are no girls like me.

        I did not ans. I looked again at tly,

        Is t?

        Stle, se sly.

        And you— You like it?

        Sill    it. . . S ill ce me for it? she said.

        e you! I said. y proper reasons f you, already; and only—

        Only love you, I ed to say. I didnt say it, t    I tell you? If sill be proud, t o say it, anyill couldnt bear it. I quickly reacopped ; t my to rub at t, te skin; but s my ill. My t moved to    like a pearl, urned     my palm. . tayed black upon er all, I t, was only ink.

        it o make o soo. I    I mig! e moved apart. S    . Sill    fluttered to tooped and caug up and smoot.

        does it say? I said, when I had.

        S is filled    you . . . Look.

        Sook up t darker, till beat against t so t, and sat beside me. s rose in a rus t; and began to sten, one by one.

        Notes

        Many books provided orical detail and inspiration. Im particularly ied to V.A.C. Gatrells tree: Execution aion in a Private Asylum (London, 1910).

        top ated bibliograporum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Io- grapical, on Curious and Unon Books (London, 1877); turia Librorum Absditorum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Io- grapical, on Curious and Unon Books (London, 1879); and a Librorum ta: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Io- grapical, on Curious and Unon Books (London, 1885). Mr Lillys statements on book-colleg e all ots irely fictitious.

        All of texts cited by Maud are real. tival of tain Dra, and tful turk. For publisails of these see Ashbee, above.
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