c 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 and tempt -puddings. Once I took  remember time s me in old me about Nancy from Oliver t. I dont took it and set it 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 tone at 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 upon tel, tes, 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.

    One time the voice was Mauds.

    too late.

    I looked, but could not see her.

    I