I s be astoniser all, o o t my t. No, I s risk it.

    eps to ts ongue, puts out ts in a  of .  te. But han I do.

    And  tain back. till brig  to lie in darkness. But after all, every surface t takes up t is strange to me; and  my fingers to some mark upon taking my touco groranger. My cloak and gown and linen are closed in

    t. I look, and look, for somet last, in tand, my so toop, and place my  straigouchem again.

    ten o—for bells and gro back my  t lies Sue. If surned in . S make any sound, any at all—I c, I am certain I would.

    Ss in  creeps across time, I sleep. I sleep and dream of Briar. But t as I recall te for my uncle, and lost.

    Ser t, to o set food before me, to take aouce; but, as in t of our days at Briar, ss my gaze. ts near me, but rarely do , roug nigry, t muddy s. rangeness. . Above all, he angular arm-chair.

    See ? It is rising from its socket—it is quite t. I srousers. I s Cer all. At te I s London only to be laugs streets.

    London, I to me now.

    , every ottes tain on o t. Nos me take a dose of my draug tle.

    Very good, c much longer, now.

    o your best goomorrow, will you?

    I do. I o bring an end to our long . I end fear, and nervousness, and  looking at Sue—or else, looking at ely, to see if s I remember sliding upon me, pressing, turning, opening me up—oucly lifeless and ors.

    e —I cannot say  last: tomorrooday. You remember?

    I errible dreams.

    I cannot see t send t com