east, beyond its present reacainty, ty, wion of ignorance.

    “here are you going?”

    “to put Adèle to bed: it is past ime.”

    “You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx.”

    “Your language is enigmatical, sir: but tainly not afraid.”

    “You are afraid—your self-love dreads a blunder.”

    “In t sense I do feel appreo talk nonsense.”

    “If you did, it  for sense. Do you never laug trouble yourself to ansurally austere, any more turally vicious. traint still clings to you somerolling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear in ter, or o smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in time, I to be natural  impossible to be conventional s y t intervals t of bird t bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is t but free, it  on going?”

    “It ruck nine, sir.”

    “Never mind,— a minute: Adèle is not ready to go to bed yet. My position, Miss Eyre, o to tion. alking to you, I cudy,—reasons t I may, nay, t I s to you some day). S of  ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock; rapture lit ; coquetry runs in  que je l’essaie!’ cried s à l’instant même!’ and s of tes ser; and I kno t never mind t. enderest feelings are about to receive a siment; stay noo see w will be realised.”

    Ere long, Adèle’s little foot ered, transformed as ed. A dress of rose-coloured satin, very s, and as full in t as it could be gat ockings and small in sandals.

    “Est-ce que ma robe va bien