I suppose t even t is so nes till slender and  even t draugging of ion. I believe I  t, ook my ting back tling  a poison—tself in to all its rigid familiar lines. I lie and c. I knooo  trangeness of Briar—at tillness, turning passages and cluttered  trange to me for ever, I felt trangeness make me strange— make me a ts and er in t of t Briar crept on me. Briar absorbed me. No of th which I have covered

    myself and t meant to escape! Briar  me!

    But, I am  into doug utterly.  eigo t aogeternoon, I am summoned doairs to make my fareo tlemen, it is only Mr rey and Mr  I must give my o. I find tening tcoats, draands, a little  makes no gesture. tep and lift to crey smiles.

    ea, he says.

    Mr  on . No off. tatue?

    ell, botrey says; but I meant tatue. Miss Lilly s you takes my ers  clay, you knoo  unruck again—as I alhe unfairness of your uncle keeping you here in such a miserable, mushroom-like way.

    I am quite used to it, I say quietly. Besides, I t go h you?

    t. Really, Mr Lilly, I can barely make out ttons on my coat. Do you mean never to join civilised society, and bring gas to Briar?

    Not while I keep books, says my uncle.

    Say never, then. Rivers, gas poisons books. Did you know?

    I did not, says Ricurns to me, and adds, in a lo to go up to London just yet. Your uncle o offer me a little work among s. e s seems, for Morland.

    rey says,

    Nos is in progress, you let your niece make a visit to reet? S you like a  you should.

    S, says my uncle.

    Mr  is ting. akes tips of my fingers. Miss Lilly,  ever—

    Come come, says my uncle. Noedious. ep back from t;

    Fools, lemen  come, Im impatient to begin. You ools?

    I can fetc.

    o follourns, to look at me.  of o  airs. But , , raises my  to s at trip of skin exposed.  my c kind of matter mus pale, now!

    I ill laugs fall my urns from me, begins to mount tairs alone.  list slippers, t sockinged ce a   and make umble.

    I am standing, tep fade, o t look for me, does not kno I am till tened front door.  les, or  used to suc Briar, and  smarting by my uncles rike me noing of timbers and beams. I t must be rising in a cloud from tique carpets beneath his

    so follo flake and tumble from the

    sighe house walls cracking__

    gaping—collapsing in to escape.

    But I am afraid, too, of escaping. I t.  speak privately rey  dare to steal ime, to my o  secure me to s, and cakes ill; but sits at my uncles side, not mine. One nigion to say this:

    It troubles me, Miss Lilly, to t be, notention from o return to your he books.

    tting my gaze fall to my plate of broken meat: Very much, of course.

    t do someto make ttle liging or sketcerial of t sort—t I mig for you, in my oime? I t. For I see you s, from the house.

    or of music migon. Of course, I am not obedient. I say, I cannot paint, or draw. I aug.

    , never?—Forgive me, Mr Lilly. Your niece strikes one as being so competent a mistress of ts, I s, you knole trouble. Miss Lilly could take lessons from me, sir. Mig teacernoons? I tle experience in taug Paris, to ters of a Comte.

    My uncle scre ? Do you mean to assist us, Maud, in the albums?

    I mean dras own sake, sir, says Ricly, before I can reply.

    For its o me. Maud, w do you

    say?

    Im afraid I have no skill.

    No skill? ell, t may be true. Certainly your  ends to slope, even noell me, Rivers: sruction in drawing he firmness of my nieces hand?

    I s  definitely.

    t Mr Rivers teac care, anyo imagine you idle. hmm?

    Yes, sir, I say.

    Ric guards a cats eye as it slumbers. My uncle bending to e, s my look: timacy of his expression makes me shudder.

    Dont misunderstand me. Dont ts true I s—fear of its success, as s failure. But I tremble, too, at ts me quivering, as ting string  unsuspected sympaten minutes  first nig. If I never kne villainy before—or if, kno, I never named it—I kno, name it, now.

    I kno, and. S gallantry. It is gallantry!—try of rogues. Sc out paper, leads and paints. Sake  my side, guide my fingers in to rise—but his can

    fall, insinuate, and yet, like a musical note, stay clear; and , point by point across il t. Very good, er h an able girl. Very good. You learn quickly

    raig back  Agnes and find ter ao your mistresss gifts as an artist? O o judge.

    take up a pencil, go closer to ter.  you try?

    Once akes  at ouc. You dont suppose I mean to insult you? No, sir!

    ell, wtle warm, sir. arm, in December—?

    And so on. alent for torment, quite as polis, in observing to groious. I do not. teases, top, revolving faster at taunt her myself.

    Agnes, I say, op , feel t. Do you t in your eye! And dont young girls  handsome men?

    Indeed, miss, I dont know!

    Do you say t? t part of . ill you put t, wo forgive you? Do you

    t forgive a red  t ss in ure to be so. o put a passion in o punis. Dont you t you feel your passion,  you listen for tep?

    S. S, against  s only say it, or t say it and be bruised, and keep t of e; and I must bruise  bruise ing of ——I would surely feel myself.

    I never do feel it. Dont imagine I do. Does de Merteuil feel it, for Valmont? I dont  to feel it. I se myself, if I did! For I kno, from my uncles books, for too squalid a tcco be satisfied icly, ly, in closets and be  stirring in my breast—t dark propinquity—is sometoget say, it rises like a ss  tains, already; and so no-one marks it.

    No-one, periles. For I t Ricleman o be. I catcimes. I believe so c me and do me , t—and ing me—s to herself; and nurses her hope of my ruin, smiling, as she once nursed her dying child.

    tals rap is made, t prime it and ss teet is all complete— Now, says Richard, our work begins.

    e must get rid of Agnes.

    in a  t over  so coolly, eady a gaze, I am almost afraid of  me.

    You kno , he says.

    Of course.

    And you understand how?

    I , until t. Now I see his face.

    Its quite tuous girls like t. ill stop up a moutter even tbruss to o run t trouble ails,  muco it. Not muc all—  ill fair?

    Quite fair, sir.

    Good. Very good . . . t I suppose lobruso ongue and sucks to a point. Ill do it tonigfully. So o yours. All you must do is, give me fifteen minutes alone  me—and not come, if s.

    It il t, a sort of game. Dont gentlemen and young ladies, in country  and intrigue? No failing, or s.  nig look at urn my o your room, tate—perc cco  cry out, after all. So keep from going to  kno, s, s ion and t t drops, is stifled or soot to  of all: not an absence of sound, but teeming—as ter teems, wh kicks and squirming

    movements. I imagine  back—but e  e mout his—

    I put my o my oop up my ears. I dont  ay closed; take drops, at last, to  day, e. I s o s is red and raised and swollen.

    Scarlet fever, s meeting my gaze.

    tion. Fears, of t! So an attic, and plates of vinegar burned in  only once, to make me  t. I reacing a blow; I only kiss ly, on .

    t me in scorn.

    You are soft on me noo you trying. Id like to see you bruise him, before he bruises you.

    tle—but only a little; and o me t I forget s are all   off my self, live to anottern—live  patterns,   books! I will ban paper from my house!

    I lie upon my bed and try to imagine t I ake, in London. I cannot do it. I see only a series of voluptuous rooms— dim rooms, close rooms, rooms- unnerves me. I give it up. time, I am sure of it.

    I rise and y, picking  to to ted by crooks, I ting off  and ,  ing off a set of vicious faces—Mrs Vixen, Betty Doxy, Jenny Diver, Molly Brazen—until he face he seeks . . .

    Suky tawdry.

    is blue. I begin to dream of he dreams she speaks and I hear her voice. She says my name, and laughs.

    I t comes to my room ter, from him.

    Ses.

    I read it, tter to my mout my lips to t be my lover, after all—or, s. For I could not  han I could a lover.

    But I could not  a lover, more t freedom.

    I put ter upon t once. I am sure I so me for coming from London, .

    t done, I need only , one day and ter t is the day she comes.

    S Marlo time. But t and seem to feel rap comes back  rains are late, t settle. At five oclock I send illiam again—again  take supper  my h?—My uncle hearing me whisper, however, he sends Charles away.

    Do you prefer to talk s, Maud, t us.

    tle puniss for me to read from, after teady recitation of cruelty makes me calmer. But ful again; and after Margaret  me into my bed, I rise, and and no t t t for t of trap. t. It so gloo so flasion of trap berees, like a tc come, my  my . It dra, t, illiam, a vaguer figure. to to Agness room—Susans room, it and at there; and finally see her.

    Sing  tables, t and o t her face. She is dressed darkly, and seems small.

    But, s is real.—I feel t all at once, and tremble.

    It is too late to receive ead I must  furt to  lie, ep and murmur, my eyes upon ted  lies between her chamber and

    mine.

    Once I rise and go stealto it, and put my ear to t hing.

    Next morning I  carefully dress me, and ?

    Yes, miss.

    Do you think she will do?

    Do, miss?

    As girl to me.

    Sosses imes to France and I dont know w.

    ell,  be kind to  o er London. Siles bring o me, so soon as saken ?

    I , sometimes sleeping, sometimes y of  see o my uncle, or I fear I  last, at  seven or so, I read in t leads from ts staircase; and tiless murmur: and? I stand at t? Does s? Does siles comes first and, after a moments ation, sao take my life from me and give me freedom.

    Sation, comes dismay. I  s, spotted t.  to a point. oo frank, noakes in my goockings. training, I suppose—makes a y curtsey. Ssey, I can tell. Ss me, more t so Briar to ruin me. I step to take  you colour, or tremble, or  surns my gaze and ten, about tly steady in mine.

    e are ciles.  for, to London. S good enoughink.

    You need not stay, Mrs Stiles, I say. And turns to go: But you  Susan. Youve  I am an orpo Briar as a c all

    to care for me. I cannot tell you all tiles  a mot time . . .

    I say tormenting of my uncles oo routine an occupation, o  is Susan I ; and c us, I drao lead o ts. Souc is as slender as Agness, but  at all , but lig; tries to make it ser. Sells me of rain from London—  of naming it, of considering it a place of destination or desire. It is a orment to me t a girl so sligrifling as s Briar; but a consolation, also— for if s not I, alents, tter?

    So I tell myself, ress, of course, e a fine lady? So look at me!

    My voice is not quite steady. But if tterness to my tone, s catc. Instead, Ooo kind a lady. And besides, s grand clot tons; but t it  inside t counts.

    Saken aken in, by ion—so innocent, not sly—I sit a moment and regard ake . her fingers move in mine.

    Lady Alice always said so, miss, she says.

    Did she?

    Yes, miss.

    to , and brings out a letter. It is folded, sealed, directed in an

    affected feminine ate, take it—rise and , far from her gaze.

    No names! it says;—but I t frestle finger smit to employ ce t. I imagine  you. S pass t pleasure.—Burn this, will you?

    I  myself as cool as , I am not, I feel c as and ter in my  once t I ood too long. If s  fold at all. I do not yet kno s read or e so muc I laug I dont quite believe  read? I say. Not a letter, not a  to take it; and urns a page, gazes  a piece of text—but all in a  is oo subtle to counterfeit.—At last, she blushes.

    take t I am not sorry, I am only amazed. Not to read! It seems to me a kind of fabulous insufficiency—like tyr or a saint, of ty for pain.

    t oclock sounds, to call me to my uncle. At t, after all, make some bluso Ric I oug sy and tells me —again—as if s. Pero a different standard, e  by  of my skirt.

    s say, but I

    imagine rying out my boots, my gloves, my sasake an eye-glass to my jeo sell t o her young man . . .

    You are distracted, Maud, my uncle says. ion to wtend?

    No, sir, I say.

    Pertle labour. Per I  you at taking you from t perics, than among books? hmm?

    No, Uncle.

    urn to es. But he goes on.

    It ter enougo summon Mrs Stiles and ake you back. You are sure you dont desire me to do t?—send for illiam Inker and t? As o study me, acles t guard it. t smiles.   voice,  you know now?

    sloion over; as if it is a biscuit t  crumbs beneatongue. I do not ans loil . Presently s  the pages upon his desk.

    So, so. tuation all complete; and mark—te the sequence here.

    It is from t I am reading ake me back to my dra ted ing finger t my uncle keeps to mark t Briar, just as I once did; and—again, like me—in  see it,

    and tries to cross it. I must keep , more even t!—and o ouc the feel of my fingers.

    I say, Dont be frighe floor.

    I ten t, of course, s look at anyt all, it would be so muceful kind of envy. I o draw back my hand from her arm, for fear I will pinch her.

    I ask o my room,  does shink of my uncle?

    Sionary.

    e sit at luncite, and pass my plate to c be an auctioneer, a : sem of cutlery as if gauging tal from . Ss tly into  s t t about t. Soucongue to some spot upon hen swallows again.

    You o Briar, I to swallow up me.

    But of course, I  o do it. I need o do it. And already I seem to feel myself beginning to give up my life. I give it up easily, as burning o tarnis guards to bind up quivering mot settling, tig  kno. S kno until, too late, s ired, restless, bored: I take  t and seops, e draes tip of t.

    You are thinking of London, I say.

    Ss her head. London, miss?

    I nod.  do ladies do t the day?

    Ladies, miss?

    Ladies, like me.

    S er a second: Make visits, miss?

    Visits?

    to other ladies?

    Ah.

    S know. S up. I am sure she is making

    it up! Even so, I t beats suddenly

    here are no ladies like me, however;

    and for a second I ening picture of myself in

    London, alone, unvisited—

    But I am alone and unvisited, now. And I shall have Richard

    to take us

    a  en—

    Are you cold, miss? she says. Perhaps I have shivered. She rises,

    to fetcche

    carpet—he lines and diamonds and squares,

    beneat.

    I cc look too long, too narro  seven oclock s ten ss me into my bed. After t, sands in  my retcs ly sooping to pick up a fallen lace; noaking up s  kneel and pray, as Agnes did. Ss on  of my sig lifts : I see toe of one s to t doo undo ttons of s it fall, steps a of ; unlaces ays, rubs , sigeps a my o follow. Sgown— shy. She yawns. I also yawn. She

    stretcretcs out , climbs into her bed—grows warm I suppose, and sleeps . . .

    S of innocence. So did I, once. I  a moment, take out my moture and  close to my mouth.

    ts s er now!

    less it seems! But  so vividly of, in years—of t ics; and of t once ttings of coir, a piece of text on t is to do t sent me. I remember an attic stair, a ness of lead beneatful drop to the ground—

    I must fall into sleep, t plunge to t layers of t. But t quite  quite draugging of tly be my form in t seems sing and queer—no say o s. I call for Agnes. I e forgotten t sten Ric. I call for Agnes, and it seems to me s so take a do it to punis take t! I say; but sakes it, serrible darkness and I , beyond tain. It seems to me t mucime passes before t comes back. But  and sees my face, she screams.

    Dont look at me! I cry. And t leave me! For I , if say, some calamity, some dreadful t kno, cannot name it—ed; and I—

    or sne—o be freckled. I gaze at  know her.

    S is strange to me: Its Sue, miss. Only Sue. You see me? You are dreaming.

    Dreaming?

    Souc like Agnes, after all, but like— Like no-one. Ss Sue. t Agnes ina, and is gone back  lie dont be ill.

    I s; t once and I kno, my ungaugeable future. Sranger to me, but part of it all.

    Dont leave me, Sue! I say.

    I feel ate. ig so climb across me, and s and lies  me,  my hair.

    S soon lie still. t. I feel t of le rumble of  you? Good girl.

    Good girl, s been since anyone at Briar believed me good? But s. S believe it, for t. I must be good, and kind, and simple. Isnt gold said to be good? I am like gold to er all. So ruin me; but, not yet. For no, to squander—

    I kno; but cannot feel it as I sill, and o tir. Souc a little of its s meets mine, quite clear, untinged  lifts and falls, and

    sour  comes gusting. I lie and remember t. Some feeling—sters about my . I put my o t cool.

    S brings er, and ster use it quick. Ss a clot and, , unasked, across my face and beneato , so suts:  tangles! trick angles is, to start at ttom ...quot;

    Agnes o ruck  for Susan—Sue, s—no patiently s from my he glass . . .

    Good girl.

    thank you, Sue, I say.

    I say it often, in ts t follo to Agnes. t or stand, lift an arm or foot. No, Sue, w pinch me.

    No, I am not cold.—But so look me over as o be quite sure; tle  my t, to keep off draugs are not taking in t sockinged ankle and taintys sake. I must not catc any cost. I must not tire. ouldnt you say you nt groouc you take a little more? I mustnt gro must be plump, to be s slaughter.

    Of course, t kno, it is s be plump—sime, to sleep, to o dress, to o a pattern, to signals and bells. Sies me! S understanding t ts and t bind me will, soon, bind her. Bind her, like morocco or like calf ... I have grown

    used to t of book. No seem to  me  not text. Se fles you pale! s not ted blood beneath.

    I oug to do it. I cannot . I am too compelled by ance, prone to nigmares come, o bring o my bed, a second nig last sinely. I t first; but it is only t trouble ands eacime ed candle, peering into t you t miging to drop? S, and s; a single beetle falls, in a s.

    Once groo t,  and comfortable o sleeping h someone; and wonder who.

    Do you ers, Sue? I ask er she river.

    No, miss.

    Brothers?

    Not as I know of, she says.

    And so you gree alone?

    ell, miss, not .

    Cousins. You mean, your aunts children?

    My aunt? She looks blank.

    Your aunt, Mr Riverss nurse.

    Oo be sure . . .

    Surns ao imagine it; and cannot. I try to imagine ongued, s, ongue—for sometimes, o my hair, or frowning over

    slit—ongue . I ch her sigh.

    Never mind, I say—like any kindly mistress . e so London. to London, I take t does not.

    S at t at me.

    thames? she says.*

    this river, here.

    trifling bit of er, tainly.  be? t—and this is narrow. Do you see?

    I say, after a moment, t I  rivers grohey flow. She shakes her head.

    trifling bit of er? ser  o it ts stern is marked in six-incters, ROt sing, not to t to t from ttering engine. See t? sedly. ts s  all t;

    S er browns, e falls; and shief again.

    You must understand, I ermined to despise o do  do?— is only t  so long togeto be intimate. And ion of intimacy is not like Agness—not like Barbaras—not like any ladys maids. Soo frank, too loose, too free. S spots and grazes. S picking over some old dry cut upon  a pin, miss? sen

    minutes probing t. to me.

    But s, taking care to keep t from my soft fingers. Dont  yourself, se forget t s ss it, too.

    One day sakes my arm as  is noto  I feel t, like a slap. Anotime, after sitting, I complain t my feet are cakes my feet in oes. So dress me as stle co my goables, and finds primroses in to put in t get t you get in London, in try, ss t tty enoug they?

    S bring extra coals for my fires, from Mr ay. Suco do!—and yet no-one  to do it before, for my sake; even I  t to do it; and so I ers. t makes to stand, ts and spirals upon trike></strike>

    One time sable spread  for a second it quite disconcerts me, to imagine my motually ting ting out till sane—pering, ing . . .

    I take up a card. It slides against my glove. But in Sues s it, s, neatly and nimbly; and tween oniso learn I

    cannot play; and at once makes me sit, so seacion, but sly, almost greedily—tilting ired, sand tilt tips togetimes ructure, a kind of pyramid of cards—alop-most point, a king and a queen.

    Look ion; and as tructure topples, she will laugh.

    Srange, at Briar, as I imagine it must be in a prison or a cimes, salk of dancing. Ss , to sep. to my feet, and turns and turns me; and I feel,  of —I feel it pass from o me and become mine.

    Finally I let ed toothimble.

    Let me look, so t.

    I stand at t back my  of beer upon it—warm also. S my gum.

    ell, t is shan—

    ts tooth, Sue?

    to say. S eeth, miss?

    I t, since to bite.

    ts true, sractedly. Only, I ;

    So my dressing-room. I can see, t, t: ss may break beneatoes of careless risers and make tioned me, in a similar spirit, against tepping on, in naked feet, of

    o ter); tor-oil; and t, or fligems on my dressing-table, s, then call.

    Dont you know anyone we, Sue?

    A snake-bite, miss? Sill fro the Zoo?

    ell, per the Zoo.

    I cant say as I do.

    Curious. I ain, you kno you would.

    I smile, t. t; I see for t time

    you, sching my changing face.

    Are you sure?

    Yes, miss. If I , you may scream; and top.

    It does not , I do not scream. But it makes for a queer mix of sensations: tal, tness of udies toot at   black. I look at t, its lobe pierced ts. Pierced, o ting my finger-tips to ttle dimples in t of ice . . . ty does t for me.—Almost got it! o test tootricky to do to an infant, of course. For if you o let slip t like t.

    I do not knoongue rises and moves against  once, too big, too strange; and I tarnishe silver—

    I t   and set it running, I taste it. Pero tle longer at tooto a sort of panic; but noops. Sests again  my jahen draws back.

    I emerge from tle unsteadily. Sigo my face. I songue across my blunted toote from till upon it. t—not tarnis tarnis all.  I asted, or imagine I asted, is taste of .

    May a lady taste t makes me colour.

    And it is as I am standing, feeling to my c a girl comes to my door ter, from Ricten to expect it. I ten to t, our marriage, te. I ten to t take tter and, trembling, break its seal.

    Are you as impatient as I? es. I kno you are. Do you . Our ing is over. My business in London is done, and I am coming!