cold. S last t sil I sleep. She darkness.

    Sells me s me rest my   t you like it here?

    I say I t a little, if s; and at t stles ably upon ttress.

    S once, and  face-cream. , at t, and I find t  for sleep to come—as if I am tumbling into t darkness and t will save me.

    I am telling you t you mige t work upon me, making me w I am.

    Next day, I am kept to my to se my terrors of t, t do it! I cry,

    tearing tiles beats me. My go being so stiff, ss riking of my back. I take tle consolation I mig.

    I am beaten often, I believe, in my first days t be ots, tings of ty y of my uncles o fits and foaming tempers. I am an amiable craint. I dasable to til ts fly from my il my t bleeds. My passions are met s, eac. I am bound about ts and mout into lonely rooms, or into cupboards. One time—urned a candle and let t til taken by Mr ay into to t remember, noal—t tick in try silence, like so many clocks. tick for tiles comes to release me I  and cannot be uncurled, and am as hey had drugged me.

    I t frigly, by ts stairs, and ss.

    If sers for ever!

    It is someto see er t, and cter; t myself, and pinc, srong one, and soon punishes me again.

    to my c seems longer. My uncle s, all t time, as   for tiles conduct me to ions o my progress.

    iles?

    Still badly, sir.

    Still fierce?

    Fierce, and snappish.

    Youve tried your hand?

    Semper, more rages and tears. At night, Barbara shakes her head.

    a