s  at ouc. You dont suppose I mean to insult you? No, sir!

    ell, wtle warm, sir. arm, in December—?

    And so on. alent for torment, quite as polis, in observing to groious. I do not. teases, top, revolving faster at taunt her myself.

    Agnes, I say, op , feel t. Do you t in your eye! And dont young girls  handsome men?

    Indeed, miss, I dont know!

    Do you say t? t part of . ill you put t, wo forgive you? Do you

    t forgive a red  t ss in ure to be so. o put a passion in o punis. Dont you t you feel your passion,  you listen for tep?

    S. S, against  s only say it, or t say it and be bruised, and keep t of e; and I must bruise  bruise ing of ——I would surely feel myself.

    I never do feel it. Dont imagine I do. Does de Merteuil feel it, for Valmont? I dont  to feel it. I se myself, if I did! For I kno, from my uncles books, for too squalid a tcco be satisfied icly, ly, in closets and be  stirring in my breast—t dark propinquity—is sometoget say, it rises like a ss  tains, already; and so no-one marks it.

    No-one, periles. For I t Ricleman o be. I catcimes. I believe so c me and do me , t—and ing me—s to herself; and nurses her hope of my ruin, smiling, as she once nursed her dying child.

    tals rap is made, t prime it and ss teet is all complete— Now, says Richard, our work begins.

    e must get rid of Agnes.

    in a  t over  so coolly, eady a gaze, I am almost afraid of  me.

    You kno , he says.

    Of cours