Even my uncles books are co me; and t of all. I art up, are filled ammer. I lose my place. My uncle s of brass, and t at me. t steadies me, for a time. But t, from a certain o pleasure anot of a man.

    And songue to it, and into it—

    You like this, Rivers? asks my uncle.

    I confess, sir, I do.

    ell, so do many men; t is o my taste. Still, I am glad to note your interest. I address t fully, of course, in my Index. Read on, Maud. Read on.

    I do. And despite myself—and in spite of Ricormenting gaze—I feel tale  amped, after all, ter ts place in my uncles collection. I leave t and go upstairs—go sloapping toes of my slippered feet against eacep. If I strike tand in darkness. o undress me I o suffer ouc suffer t toucailor.

    And yet, even  yield at last, to t of t lift and place t wo hers.

    I o dream unspeakable dreams; and to imes sirs. Sometimes s. Go back to sleep, simes I do. Sometimes I dont. Sometimes I rise and go about times, take drops. I take drops, t; turn to  sink, not into let only into more confusion. I tely read, to Rico my uncle: to me, noakes ongue—forced it rivingly—took s—opened tle—ttle cunt—

    I cannot silence t see to gato s my  kno make some sound, or movement; for wc sche bed is so dark.

    Go to sleep, shick.

    I feel my legs, very bare inside my go at he bed.

    I say, Im afraid . . .

    t is it? s Sue! If she were Agnes! If she were a girl in a book—!

    Girls love easily, t is t.