e, my uncle stops ,  in this house.

    takes tter arike ead I must sit, ting my o t, biting doears,  upon my uncles ink-stained tongue, until I am dismissed.

    Next day at eigurn to my o yawn again.

    I groaller, in t follos and gloves and slippers.—My uncle notes it, vaguely, and instructs Mrs Stiles to cut me neo ttern of t take a sort of malicious pleasure from to suit hen again, perhaps in her grief for

    er sten t little girls are meant to turn out  Briar, and dra, noy. I o my gloves and my  t unloosening of trings. Undressed, I seem to feel myself as naked and unsafe as one of my uncles lenseless eyes.

    Asleep, I am sometimes oppressed by dreams. Once I fall into a fever, and a surgeon sees me.  fless o my croubled, s? ell,  expect t. You are an uncommon girl. rokes my o be taken in a cup of er—for restlessness. Barbara puts out ture, wiles looks on.

    to be married, and I am given anot as a bird—one of ttle, little birds t men bring dos. Se skin marked een, innocent as butter. S first. S still to be, and ill its look of mine. I beat he resemblance.

    So my life passes. You mig kno queer. But I read otalk of servants, and catc—by tying glances of parlourmaids and grooms!—I see well enougy I have become.

    I am as  rakes of fiction; but  came to my uncles s park. I kno remember t follo remember  do, , for example, sit a horse, or dance. I have

    never o spend it. I ain, or a sea.

    I , I t, too. I kno, from my uncles boo