look here!

    I o my bag, and I stoop to it, and pull at torn leattle square of linen t  t up. My udies it and shrugs.

    Rings may be got, s about anywhere.

    From him, I say.

    From anyen like t, amped V.R.—ould t make the Queens?

    I cannot ans  a her— My uncle— I look up. My uncle. hy should my uncle lie?

    ell trut last. I dare ss t of unluckiness—  a man doesnt care to talk about too freely . . .

    I gaze again at t upon it I liked, as a girl, to suppose made by a bayonet. No, as if pierced and made hollow.

    My motrapped to a table.—No. I put my o my eyes. t part, per not t. My mot in to be mindful of  I s.

    Sainly, once t  in a cell, says Ricime to time, for tisfaction of gentlemen.—ell, no more of t, just yet.  Mrs Sucksbys eye. And you ainly kept in fear of follo do to you?—save make you anxious, obedient, careless of your os—in otly fit you to your uncles fancy? Didnt I tell you once, w a scoundrel he was?

    You are aken.

    No mistake, answers Mrs Sucksby.

    You may be lying, even noh of you!

    e may be. Saps  you see, dear girl, .

    My uncle, I say again. My uncles servants. Mr ay, Mrs Stiles . . .

    But I say it, and I feel—t of a pressure—Mr ays s my ribs, iless  my cheek:

    une, surned out trash—/

    I kno, I kno. I still  to threw cups and saucers.

    Damn  t of my uncles bed, turn upon  tell me, at Briar? Dont you t , and bring me o to trick and surprise me?

    Surprise