itten ten? Do you suppose yourself anyto  t? You oo long among your uncles books. Girls love easily, t is t of t o be ten.

    one groell ; You s tell ing my iffening. t is ao me. tell  Briar for good. My uncle s care reats me for it.

    I s tell ,  tell  o be my wife; and so make good our escape, as you promised.

    I turn my face from  else sill iger anot s  my ear.

    to c disturb us. No her know I have you . . .

    and pressure of and and let akes one  my  and lifts my arm. , I flinc. Excuse my le way along my s ouc of his

    ngue; and I saste—o knoands and cisfaction, thinking me his.

    For o myself. o o takes my cloak, takes my ser all- sands fro tly, across  is all s I see it, and my  gives a plunge—t caving, or dropping, t , so muc fear, or madness. I curn and stretc tudied gestures I ously, so long. Is t I, of all people, s kno I t desire smaller, neater; I supposed it bound to its oaste is bound to to ts and ins me, like a sickness. It covers me, like skin.

    I t see it. No must colour or mark me—I t must mark me crimson, like paint marks t red points, tures. I am afraid, t nigo undress before o lie at o sleep. I am afraid I urn and touch her ...

    But after all, if sremble, if s beat remble for ing, still ing. Next day I take o my mot and gaze at tone, t I  so neat and free from blemiso smas imes—t my mot I migo Sue: Do you kno did it!—and it is an effort, to keep te of triumph from my voice.

    S catc. Sco o comfort me—any