t    te    rise and go doo tc Rie, and again puts o my skirts, to nudge me, tands and laug stir, t someone brings me soup, . t taken a I must rise at last, to visit t t-faced girl—Dainty—is made to so it, tands at to keep me from running from it into t. I remember t I    I am undressed and put in a nig my o I sleep, per I am ling of taffeta— t I look in o see Mrs Sucksby    do o the bed beside me. I remember

        t ss o me, tc to h.

        I kno I am scious of t of s of    sly into an even sleep, and snores,    in and out of slumber. tful sleeping makes t seems to me t s in it—s!—ts of smoke, I am pelled to stumble. I    Briar; no Mrs Creams; noable beside me. I o moan and long for slumber—for al t, es truly lie,    I am.

        At last I    sleep again. ttle. treet-lamp burning, t    t scarf    t is put out. t turns filtime, to a sickly yello creeps, and    creeps sound—softly at first, taggering cresd, tramp of feet, ting of    es, out of t of London. It is six or seven oclock. Mrs Sucksby sleeps on at my side, but I am c my stomac is May, and milder    Briar—I sill    my clot    dressed, .— I remember , noood dosed and dazed before    to tly, and gro my ts are    get out. I must get out! I must get out of London—go a money. / must, I t t of all—/ must get

        Sue! Mrs Sucksby breat s taffeta goo it and pat ts of its skirt. Empty. I stand and study t of draelpieo keys; but many places, I suppose, w be cealed.

        tirs—does not    moves o remember . . . Sy movement of al. I take a step. ed, e ep again, and tand at    a moment, uain; t my fingers behe edge of pillow and slowly, slowly, reach.

        Sakes my , and smiles. She coughs.

        My dear, I loves you f, s t been born ts got touc    past me, rong about my arm; turns to a caress. I s you cold! s, let us cover you up. Sted quilt from ts it about me. Better, dear girl?

        My angled, and .

        I wish I were dead, I say.

        O kind of talk is t?

        I wishen.

        Sill smiles. ild ? ts Mr Ibbs, a-cooking up our breakfasts. Lets see    a plate of bloaters before her!

        S t in ticoat; noo affeta goo dip er and brusra la, hee hee, she sings brokenly, as she

        does it. I keep my oangled c are cracked, and bulge at toe.    o ogs, s and permaly marked by ters.

        tarted g. t    my otheir pap.

        e do go doo escape. But I look at myself. Like t you give me back my gown, my shoes?

        Per too keenly, ion, in it. Sates, t dusty old frock? ts? s akes up t ladies    oo. S you look . o be s rise before tleman—ate of dis sider no of—s say an uncle. Eh?

        I turn aeful to me; but I    go o t dark kitctle lourns in the lock.

        I step at oo t o try t is s up tigout.

        So to to pus t, by an ing nails t keep t I t give, if I pus t; and I am still undressed. orse t, treet ; and t first I to call to to break to signal and ser a sed I begin to look more closely at ty clots t run and tumble at twelve

        is    is c . . .

        At to tters -sy bas and feeds s c at me.

        I start back from th my hands.

        hen Mrs Sucksby es again, however, I am ready.

        Listen to me, I say, going to    Rie away from my uncles ?

        Your uncle? s me a tray, but stands in til I move back.

        Mr Lilly, I say, as I do it. You k. Dont you suppose his?

        I s it. Aint we made you cosy, dear?

        You kno you?

        All rig is Mr Ibbs. My voice     of tco t of tairs. Ricoo, irred in en.

        All rigly. to me. And , look, growing chilly.

        Ss tray upon t I kno Mr Ibbs still stands at t of tairs, t Rid listens at top. tray e and a fork upon it, and a linen napkin. Upoer a ttle like t    for my especial use at Briar; but    tial.

        Please let me go, I say.

        Mrs Sucksby shakes her head. Dear girl, she says, go where?

        Ss and, w answer, leaves me. Rico his bed. I hear him humming.

        I taking up te,    against t be strong. You must be strong and ready to run. And so I sit a—sloc tained; and I o replace them.

        After an o take ty plate. Anotand, again, at to t, and pace again. I pass from fury to maudlin grief, to stupor. But tering rage. I make a run at o strike he floor and kick, and kick—

        two passes in darkness.

        , it is again unnaturally early. ttle basket ced gold,    cus. I take it to t    me, until Mrs Sucksby yawns and opens her eyes.

        Dear girl, all rigy of tion—o be so    rat—prompts me to grind my teet my        ty to taking t be over, ? Im ready to bust.

        I do not move. After a sed sc    is a te c, , in t of m, I queasily took to be clumps of

        ion merely—a great eye    it, in a plain black fount, a motto:

        use me    tell of w ive seen!

        a present from wales

        t or t Mrs Sucksby sets t dos , and stoops. hen I shudder, she makes a face.

        Not nice, is it, dear? Never mind. e s, in rand house.

        Sraigticoat between hen she rubs her hands.

        No do you say to t oday, make you look , its a dull old t it? And queer and old-fas ry you in somet dresses saved for you—got em    fine, you    believe it.    say y in a em fitted up? Daintys clever    ss just    you    broug dragged up. But s .

        Stention, no escape.

        S of fis it. S as syrup: it makes my    beat    er. Ss a tories to     take to my face, under my arms, bet time, in all my life, t I washed myself.

        ty. t them

        doie trings and dra goy sees t, rimming it, anotripe, and a ty takes up an edge of clotrokes it.

        Pongee? she says, as if in wonder.

        Pongee,    of ones. Ss t, ed ligained h coeal.

        Sc do you say, my dear, to these?

        I    ks of London. My    hey are hideous, hideous.

        S no you beeoo long in t dreary great    to be    if youve no more idea of fas? , dear girl, upon to. S takes your fancy? the silver?

        you a grey, I say, or a brown, or a black?

        Dainty looks at me in disgust.

        Grey, brown or black? says Mrs Sucksby. ?

        Make it t, t last. I tripe o t of dra up. S stogs, and stays, and coloured petticoats. tticoats astonis linen must be    as,    all black books must turn out Bibles.

        But I must be coloured nowo girls dressing a doll.

        No? says Mrs Sucksby, studying till, my dear, akes her measure. Lord,

        look at your .—eady! A person dont    to ell you.—ts better. too loose, is it? ell,    be particular about ts em.

        take a bring me     o o . . .?

        S distractedly. S y stitc to t of table in t co sort tems inside. I cs my jetle linen packet, un and tips tents into her lap.

        No once ures ss it quickly aside. A bracelet of emeralds, s, in fas time of King Gee; but ones. e ss too    is, firl    you a    of beads—glass beads, but    you mucter. And— Os t t a beauty? Look Dainty, look at tunning great stones in t!

        Dainty looks.    a spanker! she says.

        It is ts I once imagined Sue breat ing eye. Noudies it    sparkles. It sparkles, even here.

        I kno mind? Ss clasp and pins it to ty lets fall o ch her.

        Oh, Mrs S! she says. You looks like a regular queen.

        My    beats ainly—not knoo pliment or mock. I do not know, myself.

        For a time, ty finiss and pins it into a knot. tand, so t survey me. tant, tilt t ty rubs her nose. Mrs Sucksby drums her fingers across her lips, and frowns.

        ter s about it: I turn, and see . I barely reise myself. My moute. My eyes are sure and colour of yellos of t my t.

        Per, after all, says Mrs Sucksby, aint t too like bruises. And as for your c say you give it a bit of a pinc t? No? Let Dainty try for you t a grip like thunder, she has.

        Dainty es and seizes my d t from her grasp.

        All rig! sossing amping. Im sure, you    keep your yellow face!

        o like one. You put t lip in. Dainty o pout. ts better. Miss Lilly,    ake try touc green—    all, so long as you keep from sing too he bodice.

        But I ot bear to be    let en t dress. You like it, dear girl? ser. t last. Noun ts? Miss Lilly?—Dainty, you go on first. tairs are tricky, I se for Miss Lilly to take a tumble.

        Sy passes before me and, after a sed, I folloill    I o Briar.    t of tairs, t I ougo take? I am not sure. I ot see. Dainty raordinary sound—a sound, like trembling, to silence. I start, and turn. Mrs Sucksby urned. Go on, you old bird! s. And to me, more sly: Ns only Mr Ibbss aged sister, t is kept to o the horrors.

        S and en doairs—my limbs ad my breaty s at ttom. to fill it. In o tcreet-door bes across it. I sloep. But toucs rigep again, and almost stumble.

        tg at table playing at dice. t t! y, say it was you and Ill kiss you.

        Ill bruise your eyes, get my ired. Get out of t ctle er, a    down.

        S ing tg t.—Keep ts out, sg her.

        Jos ty seat. e, Maud,    beside me. And if you    to fly at my eyes—

        as you did, you kno to knock you down again.

        Jo you make so free    make free h yours—you hear me?

        Riswer.    us be friends again, hmm?

        s o me, and I dodge it, dras aening of tc care, I say, to be t a friend of yours. I dont care to be t a friend to any of you. I e among you because I must; because Mrs Sucksby , and I    life left io t , remember the you all.

        And I sit, not in ty place beside    in t rog-c table. I sit in it and it creaks. Joy gaze quickly at Mrs Sucksby, imes.

        And , f a laugake ts and ?

        Gone off on a job, says Joook Charley ag.

        Ss sleeping?

        Gentleman give em a dose, half an ho.

        Good boy, good boy. Keep it nid quiet. S me. All rig of tea, per ans ro my cs    coffee, ty,    up some er.—Like a cake, dear girl, to c do ac care for cakes?

        t could be served to me     be to me as ashes.

        S a mout, for poetry! As for the cake, now—? I look away.

        Dainty sets about making ticks, and strikes tte. tobaoke, and smoke from tting dles, already drifts from wall

        to ly gleam, as if painted ures—of , raits—of Mr Ced to a board of cork; and are muc-holes.

        If I , I t ten t, make Mrs Sucksby give up tle. If I had a knife.

        Rics te, narroty dress,    trimmings, and I    ut, tut, emper not muc you en up in fi. As apples do. And veal-calves.

        Go to hell, will you? I say.

        t, s, sounds a, sounds almost s. Still, dear—able, drops nt speak so nasty.

        I o me, do you?

        Ster and she looks away.

        I drink my coffee, t speak again. Mrs Sucksby sits, softly beating able-top, ogeto a froy s to steam and stink. I y eyes. My stomak again. Or an axe . . .

        But tiflingly , and I am so    aurned. Mrs Sucksby is feeding babies, and Dainty is cooking a supper. Ba, cabbage, crumbling pota-

        toes and bread: te and, miserably pig free trips of fat from ts from ts of fis it. t out glasses. Care for some tipple, Miss Lilly? Mrs Sucksby says. A stout, or a

        sherry?

        A gin? says Richard, some look of mischief in his eye.

        I take a gin. taste of it is bitter to me, but triking t stirs, brings a vague and nameless fort.

        So t day passes. So pass t folloo bed— am undressed, every time, by Mrs Sucksby, ticoats and locks t in ttle gold cails of my fi,    my plan of escape. For I must escape. I o Sue.    are took    remember.    kno. First, to Briar, beg money from my uncle—ill believe s! Ill beg from Mrs Stiles! Or, Ill steal! Ill steal a book from t book, and sell it—!

        Or, no, I    do t.—For t of returning to Briar makes me s occurs to me in time t I er all. I rey. Mr o see me climb a staircase. Could I go to    myself in e enougrey, ed me to o reet.—I treet ot be far— it? I do not kno I s trey will rey will help me find Sue . . .

        So my ts run, w me; wers, wer screams,

        wleman cougurns in hers, and snores, and sighs.

        If only t keep me so close! One day, I time a door is made fast at my back, one day t to lock it. tired of alc, t. I plain of ted air. I plain of ting . I ask to go, ofteo t t dark and dusty passage at t. I knoo freedom, if I    t e: Dainty ime, and s until I e out.—Once I do try to run, and scs ting me go.

        Ricakes me upstairs, and s me.

        Im sorry, . But you kno, for t ing, you told me once.    you oblige us?

        t e bruise quite fades, I will escape!

        I pass many , in tc t—Per me, I times it almost seems t tir of ty and Jo cards and dioo be sold to Mr Ibbs and tonisuff, it seems to me, all of it: s, ill bound umbling stream of t like t came to Briar, t came as if sinking to rest on t fatains, the rods . . .

        ts ahe making of money.

        A money-making thing of all, is me.

        Not c peckis taking a fever, I     ans uck rugs about me, I let    and c look at t going to smile? Not even—s to e. t follo aint so long, is it?

        S, almost pleadingly; but I gaze steadily into o say t a day, an oo long, wh her.

        O my . Still seems rato you, does it, s? s     you, t    your spirits? ty ri box? A singing bird, in a cage? Per. As a bad one, so    over fast—nip out a Miss Lilly a bird in a cage.—Yelloter, Jos pretty . . .

        Surns in . t t, t from a beam, t to make it flutter; C. It    sing, oo dark—it    and pluck at its e ts cage. At last t it. Joakes to feeding it tcime, to make it so ig.

        Of Sue, no-one speaks at all. Once, Dainty looks at me as ss out our suppers, and scratches her ear.

        Funny t e back from try, yet. Aint it?

        Mrs Sucksby gla Ric Mr Ibbs, and t me. Ss o Dainty, I    ed to talk about it, but you mig, norut ing baot ever. t last little bit of busi Gentlema o see to    for , Dainty, he cash.

        Daintys moutrinder?     to e doo guess ook all of Mrs Sucksbys money, and ts . Just about broke Mrs Sucksbys . If o kill her.

        Done a flit? Sue trinder? s. S got the nerve.

        ell, s.

        S, says Mrs Sucksby,    me, and I dont    to s all.

        Sue triurned out a sharper! says John.

        ts bad blood for you, says Ric me. Shows up in queer ways.

        did I just say? says Mrs Sucksby    s . But le. ter a moment, he laughs.

        More meat for us, t it? e. —Or     for there.

        Mrs Sucksby sees    me; and leans and s him.

        After t, if to ter Sue, taken aside and told, like Joy, t surned out rinder?    s t is, ing out in t it seems to me, too, t t    seems to me t even Joy fet    is a s-memoried er all. It is a

        s-memoried district. Many times I    to tsteps, taking fligly, in darkness. tep of tters -saken by anoturn, moves on, to be replaced by anots Sue, to them?

        s Sue, to me? Im afraid, o remember t Im afraid, too, of fetting. I ake out ture of tures ted c. Scfully. Finally sakes ture away.

        Dont you be t are done and t be c, dear girl? You time to e.

        S. But I am still brooding on my future. I am still ed—soon one    in a lock, I kno. I am d Jooo used to me. turn careless, t. Soon, I think. Soon, Maud.

        So I til this happens.

        Ricakes to leaving t saying o y streets, or to sit in t and tcifles    stifles me. One day,    returns in an , for once: Mr Ibbs and Jo, and Dainty is sleeping in a cs o td kisses her cheek. his face is flushed and his eyes are gleaming.

        ell, hink? he says.

        Dear boy, I t imagine!    once?

        Better t,    do you t of t look so fierce! Save t, till youve    s you, rather.

        o o table. I sting, the shape of my life.

        Youll see. Look s o coat pocket and dra. A paper. .

        A bond, dear boy? says Mrs Sucksby, stepping to his side.

        A letter,    you play? S is someone you know. A friend, very dear.

        My    gives a lurce. But s.

        Not    Dainty;    guess?

        I turn my face. o tell me, dont you?

        s anot; t ed. You are ied!

        Let me see, I say. Perer all.

        Noer    , not yours.

        Let me see!

        I rise, pull down hen push him away.

        ts not my uncles ed, I could strike him.

        I never said it ers from    sent by anoteward, Mr ay.

        Mr ay?

        More curious still, and t, o me. Read t. Its a postscript; and explains, at least— so queer—will now . . .

        tilt to catc lighen read.

        Dear Sir.—I found today among my masters private papers, tter, & do suppose    it to be sent; only, o a grave indisposition sly after e it, sir, o tiles & me did t first, t to notice, sir, t     to onis deed; as, begging leave again sir, no more fully, sir, and presume to    finds you    ay, Steward of Briar.

        I look up, but say not, urn tter is s, and dated 3rd of May—seven    says this.

        to Mr Ricopaken my niece, Maud Lilly. I , and sincts, if not o t I take fort in my loss, from t I fancy you, sir, a man ing of a whore.—C.L.

        I read it, times; t again; t it fall. Mrs Sucksby instantly takes it up, to read he words, she grows flushed. hen she has finished, she gives a cry:

        t blackguard! Oh!

        y. ho, Mrs Sucksby? ho? she says.

        A s all. A o be. No-one you knoo sleep. She reaches for me. Oh, my dear—

        Leave me alone, I say.

        tter    me, more than I should have believed. I

        dont kno is t ; or to give, to Mrs Sucksbys story. But I ot bear to be cir. I eps-— to toto a door; and I seize and vainly turn the handle.

        Let me out, I say.

        Mrs Sucksby es to me. So reac for t for my face. I puso t me out! Let me out! She follows.

        Dear girl, s let yourself be upset by t old villain.    ears!

        ill you let me out?

        Let you out, to    you need no everythem gowns—

        Sep bay o it—a fist—a a it. ts pages sd pluck it from its pin. Dear girl— Mrs Sucksby says again. I turn and t at her.

        But afterears    ter aken it from me. t it stay t groeadily blacker, as es. to be filled o a fury: ing.—You knolemans son? , to look at me now? ould you?

        I do not ans. I o any kind of solicitor or la I pass my days in a sort of restless let nig is too    to sleep—at night I

        d at the narrow window in Mrs Sucksbys room, gazing blankly

        at treet.

        tome a, Mrs Sucksby    take a fever, from t?

        May oake a fever, from a draugid air? I lie do il so to the deeper.

        I almost fet t I mean to escape. Per. For at last ternoon—at tart of July, I ty to guard me.

        You cells o , my dear? I s be gone an , shall I?

        I do not ansy lets , ts ts, draable-top, and takes up     tit    listlessly, o do to try?

        I s my eyelids fall; and presently, s; and am suddenly ry teal t! So s. ticks off tes—fifteen, ty, ty-five.    go.

        Sleep, Dainty. Dainty, sleep. Sleep, sleep . . . Sleep, damn you!

        But s up.

        Dainty, I say.

        S is it?

        Im afraid— Im afraid I must visit the privy.

        Ss down    ye?

        Yes. I place my omak I am sick.

        S titution?

        I t must be. Im sorry, Dainty. ill you open the door5

        Ill go hough.

        You . You migay at your se;

        Mrs Sucksby says I must go ime; else Ill catc. here.

        Sreted beain edged    to tc me: I kno, even if I mig    ond ock    t I imagine doing it, and my s gro think I could.

        Go on, sate. s up?

        Note, slo , I say.

        No, Ill . S take the air.

        t is    I step inside and close t it; t me. ttle s broken paopped up    is cracked and smeared. I stand and te. All rigy. I do not ansamped e. From a . Ladies alemens Cast-off Clotion, anted for— elston & New-laid Eggs—

        think, Maud.

        I turn to face t my mouto a gap in the wood.

        Dainty, I say quietly.

        is it?

        Dainty, I am not    fetg.

        ? Sries t, miss.

        I t. I darent. Dainty, you must go to t

        in my room upstairs. ill you? there. ill

        you? O rushes! I am afraid of

        the men ing back—

        Oandi last. S you out ?

        ill you go for me, Dainty? But Im not to leave you, miss!

        I must keep il Mrs Sucksby es! 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 , and take it so

        badly—

        All right.

        Be quick!

        All right!

        o t, td 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 a and leads me— reise, t runs u 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 der—

        So I    myself into t is only my e, my distra—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 qui, 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, fident as rats—pulling ts, tugging at sails. And    t-backed—are ter like gleaners in a field.

        t look up, and do not see me, tand for a minute and co,    tly, as I bee a me—spot my go stare, t jerks me out of my daze. I turn—go back along take up t I must cross to reac Pauls, but it seems to me t I am lo to be, and I ot find t reets I am ill reeking of dirty er. too—men of ts and o catcle and sometimes call; t touc my er. At last I find a boy, dressed like a servant. o ts me out a fligeps, and stares as I climb them.

        Everybody stares—men, earing off a fold of skirt to cover my naked     to beg for,     me, . But I knoo tear. Dont mind it, Maud. If you start to mind it, you o rise, and I see agai last!—t makes me    ear more; and after a moment, I am obliged to stop. t tart of the bridge

        into it, a sone benc is a belt of eant for t says upon a sign, to ties upon the river.

        I sit. t. I    makes me dizzy. I tou a public bridge? I do not knoraffic passes, s and unbroken, like r er. Suppose Rid Ill go on. t. A moment, to find my breatare, I ot see them.

        tands before me, and speaks. Im afraid youre unwell.

        I open my eyes. A man, ratrao me. I let my hand fall.

        Dont be afraid,    mean to surprise you.

        ouc, makes a sort of bow.    be a friend of

        my uncles. lemans voice, and e.

        udies me closer. his face is kind. Are you unwell?

        ill you help me? I say. he hears my void his look

        ges.

        Of course,    is it? Are you ? Not , I say. But I o suffer dreadfully. I— I cast a look at tain people. ill you help me? Oh, I wish you would say you will!

        I , already. But, traordinary! And you, a lady— ill you e    tell me all your story; I s all. Dont try to speak, just yet.    you rise? Im afraid youre injured about t. Dear, dear! Let me look for a cab. ts right.

        ake it and stand. Relief , listen to me. I grip o pay you h—

        Money? s    take it. Dont t!

        —But I    ake me

        to him?

        Of course, of course.    else? e, look,     of tream of traffid s before us. tleman seizes t back. take care, ake care. tep is rather high.

        ting my foot. he es behind me

        as I do it.

        ts rigtily you

        climb!

        I stop,    upon tep. s . Go on, o the coach.

        I step back.

        After all, I say quickly, I tell me the way?

        too    to oo weary. Go on.

        ill.    a struggle.

        Nohen! he says, smiling.

        I have ged my mind.

        e, now.

        Let go of me.     i

        Do you wiso cause a fuss? e, now. I know a house—

        A    I told you t I    only to see my friend?

        ell, ter, I togs and taken a tea. Or else—wter.—hmm?

        ill kind, ill smiles; but akes my    and moves , and tries, again, to le properly, o intervene. From te urn their heads.

        to    you see? I call.

        take is me go, t till calling up. ill you take me? ill you take me, alone? I so pay you, I give you my word, when we arrive.

        turns s. No fare, no passage, he says.

        t smiling, no are you playing at? Its clear youre in some sort of fix. S you like togs, tea?

        But I still call up to tell me, t    reacreet. ill you tell me, ake, for there?

        s—in s, or laug tell. But     Street.

        to    go of me, I say.

        You dont mean it. Let go!

        I almost s. tle teaser.

        I    run. But ter a moment, to matcleman looks out. his face has ged again.

        Im sorry, ake you to your friend, I s. Look nt go to reet, t at all like me. e no;

        So il finally a line of     go on. ts up    out my breato so stop, to rest; I dare not, now.

        t leave ts anot more anonymous too, I teful for t, terrible. Never mind, never mind, pused.

        c is lined and to be, at last: for ts.—Otle money! I tleman offered, from t, and run? too late to    no on. ing ts er.    I to take? A    out and tands staring as I take it.

        But reet at last!—Only, noe. ? Not like t so narroill , still brigurning into reet, o step into t s colours. I y, broken, u up, otered cloty picture-frames and classes spilling from t, ate again, o e so suddenly upon to see trays, or piled, s; to see torn, and foxed, and bleanerves me. I stop, and cakes one up. trap of Love.—I kno, I    title so many times to my uncle I kno almost by !

        ts g; and I walk on. More shops, more books, more men; and finally a window, a

        little brig. ts, rings. treys name upon it, iers of flaking gold. I see it, and s stumble.

        I expected t. to books and prints, and ts, besides. tand at tently t look up ep and my skirts give a rustle, turn tare. But I am used to stares, by no ttle ing-table, ting at it, dressed in a coat and sleeves. ares, as ts up.    are you looking for? h is dry.

        I say, quietly, Im looking for Mr rey. I rey.

        omers s a little, and look me ain. Mr rey, one a little crey doesnt nt to o t an appoi?

        Mr rey kno need an appoi.    tomers. s your business h him?

        Its private, I say. ill you take me to o me?

        t be someto my look, eps back.

        Im not sure, after all, if nt to o ts—do you knoairs.

        t    me go to .

        I dont    give me a paper, and Ill e    my name. . ill you give me a paper?

        fie does not move.    believe he

        house.

        t, if I must, I say.

        You ot    here!

        t ; and I    there.

        tomers; picks up a pencil and puts it

        down.

        If you will? I say.

        you s, o , if it turns out    in.1 I nod. Put your name on ting.

        I begin to e. t Rie once— o e, Maud Lilly. I am afraid t last— remembering somet tea.

        I fold it, and    to les into tens, tles again. tsteps. ures to me. I .

        And, as I do, one of tomers closes d ly, meaning ts all. Anyone    see, t youre a lady . . . o t tone. Of course you do.    you?

        I say noteps back.

        ere seeing, he says, if hes in.

        tures beo t, about to slip; a girl falling, falling from tree ... I y eyes. o one of to buy t book, sir—?

        Presently, steps, and the door is opened again.

        It is Mr rey.

        er, and slig

        and trousers are creased. ands in tation, does not e into ts my gaze, but does not smile— looks about me, as if to be sure I am aloo eps back to let me pass. Mr rey— I say. s until t    is almost a hiss—is:

        Good God! Is it you? o me?

        I say notand s ra, to akes my arm. to a set of stairs. teps    top: In here.

        t up for ting and binding of books. Iype; anotreys ly of glue. Its in t ables are piled    ty. Oypesetters room—ed glass panels in it. t visible, bending over their work.

        t    ask me to sit. ands before it. akes out a e.

        Good God, s only thing.

        , more kindly; and I urn away.

        Im sorry, I say. My voice is not steady. Im afraid I o you to weep.

        You may ed glass.

        But I     my tears for a moment, then shakes his head.

        My dear, ly at last.    have you done?

        Dont ask me.

        You have run away.

        From my uncle, yes.

        From your hink.

        My ?

        he shrugs, colours, looks away.

        I say, You t kno    t    you like of me, I dont care. But you must help me.

        ill you?

        My dear—

        You . I o stay in. You used to like to say you would make me wele—

        Despite myself, my voice is rising.

        Be calmer, ing o soot not moving from    t are my staff to tly, sending up a riddling name . . .     ers say, my wife?

        I am sorry.

        Again s out ell me, o me. You mustnt take your part against your uncle. I never liked to see    nt kno    you off, you kno, ?

        I so me, now.

        But o me, you uand. If he should hear of your ing—

        .

        ell. roubled again. But to e to me! to e akes in my gaudy dress and gloves—y, lustreless, we. I sill frowning, you seem so d your ?

        t time—

        s at t; t, and starts.    your slippers! Your feet are bleeding! Did you leave,    shoes?

        I must. I hing!

        Not shoes?

        No. Not so muc.

        Rivers keeps you    shoes?

        believe it. If I mig    listening.     time tables, takes up a fe.

        You oug to . Look at t this!

        I catc of a line of print. —you s you, and I sry and , I say, from me? I    Briar. ten?

        t Briar. You dont uand. lemen, t is Rivers I blame for t—aken you—at least to    you closer.    you were.

        You dont kno know how hes used me!

        I dont    to kno is not my place to kno tell me.—O yourself! Do you knos? You t iced, surely?

        I gaze do my skirt, my slippers. t    to     only— My voice begins to shake.

        You see?    o my staff, to my stock—if to e doer as t your feet! Are truly?

        o t    door. ait o typesetters in it. I see t their heads, hear his

        nice.—I dont k care. In sitting, I ired; and t, . ts oables: I lean upon it, and gaze across it—at trimmed, unseurbed or cealed by Mr rey.—and I sill t is    is t? I kno, but—it troubles me—I ot .

        —so, so, so, so, so, you like the birch, do you?

        Mr rey returns. er; also a glass, er for me to drink.

        ting tting t to me; t? Just enougo take the blood away, for now

        ter is cold.    I    t and    to my face. Mr rey looks round and sees me do it. Youre not feveris ill?—I am only tle of it. Very good, he says.

        I look again at t upon table; but t escapes me, still. Mr rey ccs o es at thumb, and frowns.

        I say, Yood, to her men would blame me.

        No, no.    I said? It is Rivers I blame. Never mind. tell me, no money have you, upon you now?

        I have none.

        No mo all?

        I    ake a plainer one, anyway.

        Sell yown?    speak so oddly, will you? hen you go back—

        Go back? to Briar?

        to Briar? I mean, to your husband.

        to    . I ot go back to    akeo escape him!

        he shakes his head. Mrs Rivers— he says. I shudder.

        Dont call me t, I say, I beg you.

        Again, so odd!    ougo call you, if not t?

        Call me Maud. You asked me, just no, and nothing else.

        be foolisen to me, now. I am sorry for you. You    you—?

        I laugarts; and typesetters look up. , turns bae.

        ill you be reasonable? ly, warningly.

        But ?

        A quarrel, I say. You t a quarrel. You t, ? You kno guess , I t tell you. Its too great a thing.

        is?

        A secret t say. I ot— O . you like t is type? I say. ill you tell me?

        ype? e ged.

        t.

        For a sed    ansly.

        Clarendon. Clarendon. I kne, after all. I tio gaze at t my fio t—until Mr rey es and places a blank s upon it, as hers.

        Dont look t stare so!    is tter    be ill.

        I am not ill, I ansired. I y eyes. I ay here, and sleep.

        Stay ay    sound of t    eadily, I am only tired. But    anse, again, at tciously, from trey— I

        say.

        I    is you mean to do. o get you from t bring a cab, I suppose, to the building.

        ill you do t?

        You o go, to sleep? to eat?

        I have nowhere!

        You must go hen.

        I ot do t. I tle money, a little time. to find, to save—

        to save?

        to find. to find. And, tle ed, Mr rey. I    find an    man— You knoo be. Again, c does not speak. I say, You know I am rich. If youll only help me, now. If youll only keep me—

        Keep you! Do you know w you are saying? Keep you, where?

        Not in your own house?

        My house?

        I t—

        My ers? No, no. o pace.

        But at Briar you said, many times—

        I told you? t Briar. t like Briar. You must find t out.    leave a    live, in London, on nothink you will live?

        I do not know. I supposed— I supposed you would give me money,

        I    to say. I look about me. truck    I not, I say, work for you?

        ands still. For me?

        Mig ing togeting, even? I kno    room!—I sake it secretly, Rie. I stle money— enougo find out my friend, to find out an    la is it?

        still, all time; but his look has ged, is odd.

        Noter.

        I suppose I am flus of ter inside my breast, like a sable and leans upon it, not looking at me, but t dourns back.    catch my eye.

        Listen to me, ly. You ot stay . I must send for a cab, to take you. I— I must send for some o go h you.

        Go h me, where?

        to some—el. Noo set doion upon a slip of paper. Some , ake a supper.

        ? I say. I dont t, ever again! But a room! A room!—And o me tonig answer. Mr rey?

        Not tonigill ing. tonig.

        tomorrohen.

        o dry it; t. tomorrow, he says. If I .

        You must!

        Yes, yes.

        And t? Say you will!

        . Yes.

        thank God!

        I put my ay    go from here.

        I ep, to t door; and o one of typesetters—see t, trey es bay feet.

        Put your surning a be

        ready

        You are kind, Mr rey, I say, as I lean to tug on my broken slippers. God kno.

        tractedly. Dont t, now . . .

        t in silence. s, takes out co top of tairs, to stand and listen. At last he goes and es quickly back.

        this way, carefully.

        akes me do of rooms, piled es and boxes, and t of scullery, to a door. to a little grey area: teps from to an alley. A cab s t, a woman. She sees us and nods.

        You knoo do? Mr rey says to ten. o be kind to her. have you some shawl?

        Ss about me, to cover up my    against my cill    is almost treet.

        At to turn. I take Mr reys hand.

        You omorrow?

        Of course.

        You    talk of to anyone? Youll remember the danger I spoke of?

        ly. tter than I.    ?

        trey!

        o tates, before lifting my fio .     of turning ake out urn, pull out of treet—nortell; for I kain—t    cross the river.

        e go very fitfully, raffic is t t first, creets, t t and study treets from there.

        Only after some time of t tches my eye.

        All rig smiling. her voice is rough as her fingers.

        Do I begin, to feel    sure. I ter all, Mr rey    time to be careful, in    matter if s kind, so long as s? I look more closely at    is a rusty black. exture of roasted meat. Ss placidly, not speaking, ws.

        Must .

        Not too far, dearie.

        ill roug expression. I say, fretfully, Do you call me t? I wis.

        Sure is so bold a so careless, I t my face again to to try to dra e. reet, I think, from here?

        I dont like turning back to t walk?

        alk, in ts. S. heres

        Camden to bad be

        good.

        ill you talk to me, so? I say again. I am not a child.

        And again, senser. e    ts and sreet—some street of plain buildings. e turn a er, and till. Presently , grey    t of its steps. A girl in a ragged apron is reacaper to lig. ts sreet is perfectly silent.

        s to topped and I uand it    go on.

        heres your house, she says.

        tel?

        el? S t. Sc my .

        ait, I say—feeling real fear no last.    do you mean? rey directed you to?

        o here!

        And w is here?

        Its a    it?    is it to you, ? You s your supper all t leave off gripping me, mind!

        Not until you tell me where I am.

        Sries to pull    I    let eeth.

        house for ladies, she says, like you.

        Like me?

        Like you. Poor ladies, here!

        I     aside.

        I dont believe you, I say. I am meant to e to an el. Mr rey paid you for t—

        Paid me t you o leave you. Most particular. If you dont like it— So . hy, heres his very hand.

        S out a piece of paper. It is t Mr rey put about t __

        A , for destitute gentle I gaze at t of disbelief: as if my gazing at t take, I say.    mean

        tood, or you    take me back__

        Im t you, and leave you, most particular, subbornly again. "Poor lady, o a cy place." ty, aint it?

        So t ans go back to reet!—a, even as I t, I knora of my , rey goo    be a, treet—treet in darkness.—? , in London, on my own?

        I begin to s am I to do? I say.

        , but go over, says to taper is gone, and ttered, t front door at Briar. I see it, and am gripped by panic.

        I ot, I say. I ot!

        Agaier t t it? Its one or t you s all. Go on out,    home.

        I ot, I say again. I grab at    take me, somewhere else.

        Must I? S sead, her look ges. ell, I will, she says; if youll pay me.

        Pay you? I o pay you h!

        S?

        S my skirt.

        O it in desperation. I !

        ould you?

        take the shawl!

        ts. Sill looks at my skirt. tilts    you got, sly, underh?

        I sticoats—tticoats te and one crimson. Shem, and nods.

        theyll do.

        , botake both?

        t t pay me, onyself; and once for him.

        I ate—but    my skirt    trings at my    and pull tly as I , draticoats doucks tly under .

        tleman dont kno I tell the driver?

        So call. I sit    myself, feeling t my bare think I would weep, if I had life enough.

        o? sreet is filled , slender, filthy-brown.

        I bo of my o go. I tell , and tarts up. Stles ably in , rearranges . S me.

        All rig ans mind it no, now.

        Lant Street is dark o stop at,

        from t—tment-coloured sters, t I    so e. ares Fuck,    o akes me directly into t Ri searcy is ands, e as poill. But ruck.

        Oh, my girl, she says.

        I dont k. Dainty screams, I t looking. I go up tairs to Mrs Sucksbys room— my room, our room, I suppose I must call it no upon to t . My feet o bleed.

        Se, before sly. S at urning tly in to ands at my side. S try to touc srembling.

        Dear girl, s. e supposed you drowned, or murdered—

        c does not break. Ss and, , she says.

        I do. Sakes tays. S ask icoats. S exclaim over my slippers aogs. Ss me, naked, into t to my jas beside me. Srokes my eases out tangles ugs. there, now, she says.

        t. I talking, but

        talking in where, now, she ays again; and I shiver, for her voice is Sues.

        brougs o t I feel h. I y eyes.

        e t you lost, s you came back. Dear girl, I knew you should!

        I    I kne; I never kill now. I hing. No home—

        here is your home! she says.

        No friends—

        here are your friends!

        No love—

        Shen speaks, in a whisper.

        Dear girl, dont you kno I said, a imes—?

        I begin to ration, exion. ? I cry, tears.    it enougo    me    you also love me?    you smotorment me, er my ?

        I    takes t of my strengt speak. Scs, until I ill. turns ilts it. I t she is smiling.

        ts are gone! Aint it? Surns bae. I ell you, dear girl, sly, t I once bore an infant of my o died? Round about time t t lady, Sues mot told, round    queer . . .?

        to o s, and reaco stroke my tangled e safe, noroking stops. S up a lock of    tone, about your e, and your    and hands I knew would be

        slender. Only your    rat pictured

        t from treet-lamp, and from tarnis once I see    is plump and must, I uand suddenly, must once s h. Dear girl, she says. My own, my own dear girl—

        Sates anot; t last.
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