you?  Maud, o do t.

    I dont understand ry to. I am till of my uncle, my mots o  the

    mouts ticipation, I tion. I am t t t tomime, o let fly the fairies.

    Mrs Sucksby ates, to a ss out a bottle. S tumblers  t.

    I  suppose t of to; but a bit of  brandy, meant for use noell me, w?

    No  all, says Rico me and, so confused am I—so dazed and enraged—I take it at once, and sip it as if it ches me swallow.

    Got a good mouts, she says approvingly.

    Got a moutheyre marked up, Medicine. hey, Maud?

    I  ans. I sit, at last, upon ten turning into nigs s are papered tern of floands out against t be, and buzzes in  the glass.

    I sit  s run, but run uselessly. I do not ask—as I ory and I  or  told—I do not ask o do o profit from ting and stunning of me. I only rage, still, against my uncle. I only t mad, not mad . . .

    I suppose my expression is a strange one. Ric me. Dont t t woman, Marianne.

    I s, my fatleman? t an orpill live? Did he never—?

    Maud, Maud, o  t you. tc you migs, no more t?

    I dont knotle time, to tell me—

    But Mrs Sucksby o me, and ligouches my arm.

    ait up, dear girl, sly. Ss a finger to  up, and listen. You aint ory. tter parts to come. For ts been made rags of. time. t;ll  your o;, and t. You remember, my dear? quot;As for being ter of a lady,quot; says t, quot;you tell me t does being a lady do for you, except let you be ruined? I  ; s;like a girl of t ; quot;You name ; I say—still