self 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!