destination or desire. It is a orment to me t a girl so sligrifling as s Briar; but a consolation, also— for if s not I, alents, tter?

    So I tell myself, ress, of course, e a fine lady? So look at me!

    My voice is not quite steady. But if tterness to my tone, s catc. Instead, Ooo kind a lady. And besides, s grand clot tons; but t it  inside t counts.

    Saken aken in, by ion—so innocent, not sly—I sit a moment and regard ake . her fingers move in mine.

    Lady Alice always said so, miss, she says.

    Did she?

    Yes, miss.

    to , and brings out a letter. It is folded, sealed, directed in an

    affected feminine ate, take it—rise and , far from her gaze.

    No names! it says;—but I t frestle finger smit to employ ce t. I imagine  you. S pass t pleasure.—Burn this, will you?

    I  myself as cool as , I am not, I feel c as and ter in my  once t I ood too long. If s  fold at all. I do not yet kno s read or e so muc I laug I dont quite believe  read? I say. Not a letter, not a  to take it; and urns a page, gazes  a piece of text—but all in a  is oo subtle to counterfeit.—At last, she blushes.

    take t I am not sorry, I am only amazed. Not to read! It seems to me a kind of fabulous insufficiency—like tyr or a saint, of ty for pain.

    t oclock sounds, to call me to my uncle. At t, after all, make some bluso Ric I oug sy and tells me —again—as if s. Pero a different standard, e  by  of my skirt.

    s say, but I

    imagine