aying, I   in years. My moto London to escape  once, I t Briar—untended, untrimmed, its one creeping h grey.

    till c my hand drop.

    I dont believe you, I say. My mot was her name?__

    tell me t.

    So look sly. I kno, s  say it just yet. Ill tell you tter t started it, t arts your name. Ill tell you tter. t oo! t letter, t. t was aR . . .

    S, I kno? ho is she?

    A nurse, I say. You were a nurse—

    But s smiles. Now, w?

    You dont kno kno I was born in a madhouse!

    as you? she answers quickly. hy do you say so?

    You t remember my own home?

    I stle.  mean here.

    I , I say.

    You old it, I expect.

    Every one of my uncles servants kno!

    told it, too, per make it true? Maybe, j Maybe not.

    As sand to ts upon it, sloness

    s, Gentleman?—I  last t t?  me again. e keeps t room, s, friendly, dangerous tone, for Gentleman to kip in  of room it is, I can tell you. Seen all manner of business up ts of tricks. People been knoo come —sends surprise— t be found—do you see?—whey come here. Chaps, girls, kids, ladies

    After t   you sit, dear girl? Dont care to? e, t upon it—a quilt of coloured squares, rougted, and rougogeto pluck at one of its seams, as if in distraction. Now, w was I speaking of? she says, her eyes on mine.

    Of ladies, says Richard.

    Ss s rigrue ladies, you find ticks in ticular, t came—oeen years? Seventeen? Eigcime to you, s, I dare say. Seems a lifetime, dont i