Chapter Thirteen (第2/2页)
runs u remember it nearer, lower. I recall a here is no wall here.
No matter. Keep going. Keep t your back, and run. take , and are dark, you must not get caugter t t and ao you. No matter t London is loud. No matter t tter t tare—no matter t t;
t tter t your slippers are silk, t your feet are cut by every stone and der—
So I myself into t is only my e, my distra—t, and per makes t t me, and snaps at my skirt. I time—to see me stagger. You, I say, my side, ell me, ? o reet?—but at they fall back.
I go more slo, treets beyond t I go? I ; for no streets and streets better if I gro? I am lost already . . .
t t, dark and ips of broken roofs, its gold cross gleaming, t Pauls. I kno, from illustrations; and I treet is near it. I turn, pick up my skirts, make for it. t t seems! turns green, t stumble. I ed a street, a square. Instead, I am at top of a set of crooked stairs, leading doo filter. I Pauls is close, after all; but tween us.
I stand and gaze at it, in a sort of of a Briar. I remember seeing it seem to fret and its banks: I t it longed—as I did—to qui, to spread. I did not kno o t flos surface is littered ter—earings of cloth cork
and tilting bottles. It moves, not as a river moves, but as a sea: it breaks, against ts, and tairs and t rise from it, it froths like sour milk.
It is an agony of er and of e; but t, fident as rats—pulling ts, tugging at sails. And t-backed—are ter like gleaners in a field.
t look up, and do not see me, tand for a minute and co, tly, as I bee a me—spot my go stare, t jerks me out of my daze. I turn—go back along take up t I must cross to reac Pauls, but it seems to me t I am lo to be, and I ot find t reets I am ill reeking of dirty er. too—men of ts and o catcle and sometimes call; t touc my er. At last I find a boy, dressed like a servant. o ts me out a fligeps, and stares as I climb them.
Everybody stares—men, earing off a fold of skirt to cover my naked to beg for, me, . But I knoo tear. Dont mind it, Maud. If you start to mind it, you o rise, and I see agai last!—t makes me ear more; and after a moment, I am obliged to stop. t tart of the bridge
into it, a sone benc is a belt of eant for t says upon a sign, to ties upon the river.
I sit. t. I makes me dizzy. I tou a public bridge? I do not knoraffic passes, s and unbroken, like r er. Suppose Rid Ill go on. t. A moment, to find my breatare, I ot see them.
tands before me, and speaks. Im afraid youre unwell.
I open my eyes. A man, ratrao me. I let my hand fall.
Dont be afraid, mean to surprise you.
ouc, makes a sort of bow. be a friend of
my uncles. lemans voice, and e.
udies me closer. his face is kind. Are you unwell?
ill you help me? I say. he hears my void his look
ges.
Of course, is it? Are you ? Not , I say. But I o suffer dreadfully. I— I cast a look at tain people. ill you help me? Oh, I wish you would say you will!
I , already. But, traordinary! And you, a lady— ill you e tell me all your story; I s all. Dont try to speak, just yet. you rise? Im afraid youre injured about t. Dear, dear! Let me look for a cab. ts right.
ake it and stand. Relief , listen to me. I grip o pay you h—
Money? s take it. Dont t!
—But I ake me
to him?
Of course, of course. else? e, look, of tream of traffid s before us. tleman seizes t back. take care, ake care. tep is rather high.
ting my foot. he es behind me
as I do it.
ts rigtily you
climb!
I stop, upon tep. s . Go on, o the coach.
I step back.
After all, I say quickly, I tell me the way?
too to oo weary. Go on.
ill. a struggle.
Nohen! he says, smiling.
I have ged my mind.
e, now.
Let go of me. i
Do you wiso cause a fuss? e, now. I know a house—
A I told you t I only to see my friend?
ell, ter, I togs and taken a tea. Or else—wter.—hmm?
ill kind, ill smiles; but akes my and moves , and tries, again, to le properly, o intervene. From te urn their heads.
to you see? I call.
take is me go, t till calling up. ill you take me? ill you take me, alone? I so pay you, I give you my word, when we arrive.
turns s. No fare, no passage, he says.
t smiling, no are you playing at? Its clear youre in some sort of fix. S you like togs, tea?
But I still call up to tell me, t reacreet. ill you tell me, ake, for there?
s—in s, or laug tell. But Street.
to go of me, I say.
You dont mean it. Let go!
I almost s. tle teaser.
I run. But ter a moment, to matcleman looks out. his face has ged again.
Im sorry, ake you to your friend, I s. Look nt go to reet, t at all like me. e no;
So il finally a line of go on. ts up out my breato so stop, to rest; I dare not, now.
t leave ts anot more anonymous too, I teful for t, terrible. Never mind, never mind, pused.
c is lined and to be, at last: for ts.—Otle money! I tleman offered, from t, and run? too late to no on. ing ts er. I to take? A out and tands staring as I take it.
But reet at last!—Only, noe. ? Not like t so narroill , still brigurning into reet, o step into t s colours. I y, broken, u up, otered cloty picture-frames and classes spilling from t, ate again, o e so suddenly upon to see trays, or piled, s; to see torn, and foxed, and bleanerves me. I stop, and cakes one up. trap of Love.—I kno, I title so many times to my uncle I kno almost by !
ts g; and I walk on. More shops, more books, more men; and finally a window, a
little brig. ts, rings. treys name upon it, iers of flaking gold. I see it, and s stumble.
I expected t. to books and prints, and ts, besides. tand at tently t look up ep and my skirts give a rustle, turn tare. But I am used to stares, by no ttle ing-table, ting at it, dressed in a coat and sleeves. ares, as ts up. are you looking for? h is dry.
I say, quietly, Im looking for Mr rey. I rey.
omers s a little, and look me ain. Mr rey, one a little crey doesnt nt to o t an appoi?
Mr rey kno need an appoi. tomers. s your business h him?
Its private, I say. ill you take me to o me?
t be someto my look, eps back.
Im not sure, after all, if nt to o ts—do you knoairs.
t me go to .
I dont give me a paper, and Ill e my name. . ill you give me a paper?
fie does not move. believe he
house.
t, if I must, I say.
You ot here!
t ; and I there.
tomers; picks up a pencil and puts it
down.
If you will? I say.
you s, o , if it turns out in.1 I nod. Put your name on ting.
I begin to e. t Rie once— o e, Maud Lilly. I am afraid t last— remembering somet tea.
I fold it, and to les into tens, tles again. tsteps. ures to me. I .
And, as I do, one of tomers closes d ly, meaning ts all. Anyone see, t youre a lady . . . o t tone. Of course you do. you?
I say noteps back.
ere seeing, he says, if hes in.
tures beo t, about to slip; a girl falling, falling from tree ... I y eyes. o one of to buy t book, sir—?
Presently, steps, and the door is opened again.
It is Mr rey.
er, and slig
and trousers are creased. ands in tation, does not e into ts my gaze, but does not smile— looks about me, as if to be sure I am aloo eps back to let me pass. Mr rey— I say. s until t is almost a hiss—is:
Good God! Is it you? o me?
I say notand s ra, to akes my arm. to a set of stairs. teps top: In here.
t up for ting and binding of books. Iype; anotreys ly of glue. Its in t ables are piled ty. Oypesetters room—ed glass panels in it. t visible, bending over their work.
t ask me to sit. ands before it. akes out a e.
Good God, s only thing.
, more kindly; and I urn away.
Im sorry, I say. My voice is not steady. Im afraid I o you to weep.
You may ed glass.
But I my tears for a moment, then shakes his head.
My dear, ly at last. have you done?
Dont ask me.
You have run away.
From my uncle, yes.
From your hink.
My ?
he shrugs, colours, looks away.
I say, You t kno t you like of me, I dont care. But you must help me.
ill you?
My dear—
You . I o stay in. You used to like to say you would make me wele—
Despite myself, my voice is rising.
Be calmer, ing o soot not moving from t are my staff to tly, sending up a riddling name . . . ers say, my wife?
I am sorry.
Again s out ell me, o me. You mustnt take your part against your uncle. I never liked to see nt kno you off, you kno, ?
I so me, now.
But o me, you uand. If he should hear of your ing—
.
ell. roubled again. But to e to me! to e akes in my gaudy dress and gloves—y, lustreless, we. I sill frowning, you seem so d your ?
t time—
s at t; t, and starts. your slippers! Your feet are bleeding! Did you leave, shoes?
I must. I hing!
Not shoes?
No. Not so muc.
Rivers keeps you shoes?
believe it. If I mig listening. time tables, takes up a fe.
You oug to . Look at t this!
I catc of a line of print. —you s you, and I sry and , I say, from me? I Briar. ten?
t Briar. You dont uand. lemen, t is Rivers I blame for t—aken you—at least to you closer. you were.
You dont kno know how hes used me!
I dont to kno is not my place to kno tell me.—O yourself! Do you knos? You t iced, surely?
I gaze do my skirt, my slippers. t to only— My voice begins to shake.
You see? o my staff, to my stock—if to e doer as t your feet! Are truly?
o t door. ait o typesetters in it. I see t their heads, hear his
nice.—I dont k care. In sitting, I ired; and t, . ts oables: I lean upon it, and gaze across it—at trimmed, unseurbed or cealed by Mr rey.—and I sill t is is t? I kno, but—it troubles me—I ot .
—so, so, so, so, so, you like the birch, do you?
Mr rey returns. er; also a glass, er for me to drink.
ting tting t to me; t? Just enougo take the blood away, for now
ter is cold. I t and to my face. Mr rey looks round and sees me do it. Youre not feveris ill?—I am only tle of it. Very good, he says.
I look again at t upon table; but t escapes me, still. Mr rey ccs o es at thumb, and frowns.
I say, Yood, to her men would blame me.
No, no. I said? It is Rivers I blame. Never mind. tell me, no money have you, upon you now?
I have none.
No mo all?
I ake a plainer one, anyway.
Sell yown? speak so oddly, will you? hen you go back—
Go back? to Briar?
to Briar? I mean, to your husband.
to . I ot go back to akeo escape him!
he shakes his head. Mrs Rivers— he says. I shudder.
Dont call me t, I say, I beg you.
Again, so odd! ougo call you, if not t?
Call me Maud. You asked me, just no, and nothing else.
be foolisen to me, now. I am sorry for you. You you—?
I laugarts; and typesetters look up. , turns bae.
ill you be reasonable? ly, warningly.
But ?
A quarrel, I say. You t a quarrel. You t, ? You kno guess , I t tell you. Its too great a thing.
is?
A secret t say. I ot— O . you like t is type? I say. ill you tell me?
ype? e ged.
t.
For a sed ansly.
Clarendon. Clarendon. I kne, after all. I tio gaze at t my fio t—until Mr rey es and places a blank s upon it, as hers.
Dont look t stare so! is tter be ill.
I am not ill, I ansired. I y eyes. I ay here, and sleep.
Stay ay sound of t eadily, I am only tired. But anse, again, at tciously, from trey— I
say.
I is you mean to do. o get you from t bring a cab, I suppose, to the building.
ill you do t?
You o go, to sleep? to eat?
I have nowhere!
You must go hen.
I ot do t. I tle money, a little time. to find, to save—
to save?
to find. to find. And, tle ed, Mr rey. I find an man— You knoo be. Again, c does not speak. I say, You know I am rich. If youll only help me, now. If youll only keep me—
Keep you! Do you know w you are saying? Keep you, where?
Not in your own house?
My house?
I t—
My ers? No, no. o pace.
But at Briar you said, many times—
I told you? t Briar. t like Briar. You must find t out. leave a live, in London, on nothink you will live?
I do not know. I supposed— I supposed you would give me money,
I to say. I look about me. truck I not, I say, work for you?
ands still. For me?
Mig ing togeting, even? I kno room!—I sake it secretly, Rie. I stle money— enougo find out my friend, to find out an la is it?
still, all time; but his look has ged, is odd.
Noter.
I suppose I am flus of ter inside my breast, like a sable and leans upon it, not looking at me, but t dourns back. catch my eye.
Listen to me, ly. You ot stay . I must send for a cab, to take you. I— I must send for some o go h you.
Go h me, where?
to some—el. Noo set doion upon a slip of paper. Some , ake a supper.
? I say. I dont t, ever again! But a room! A room!—And o me tonig answer. Mr rey?
Not tonigill ing. tonig.
tomorrohen.
o dry it; t. tomorrow, he says. If I .
You must!
Yes, yes.
And t? Say you will!
. Yes.
thank God!
I put my ay go from here.
I ep, to t door; and o one of typesetters—see t, trey es bay feet.
Put your surning a be
ready
You are kind, Mr rey, I say, as I lean to tug on my broken slippers. God kno.
tractedly. Dont t, now . . .
t in silence. s, takes out co top of tairs, to stand and listen. At last he goes and es quickly back.
this way, carefully.
akes me do of rooms, piled es and boxes, and t of scullery, to a door. to a little grey area: teps from to an alley. A cab s t, a woman. She sees us and nods.
You knoo do? Mr rey says to ten. o be kind to her. have you some shawl?
Ss about me, to cover up my against my cill is almost treet.
At to turn. I take Mr reys hand.
You omorrow?
Of course.
You talk of to anyone? Youll remember the danger I spoke of?
ly. tter than I. ?
trey!
o tates, before lifting my fio . of turning ake out urn, pull out of treet—nortell; for I kain—t cross the river.
e go very fitfully, raffic is t t first, creets, t t and study treets from there.
Only after some time of t tches my eye.
All rig smiling. her voice is rough as her fingers.
Do I begin, to feel sure. I ter all, Mr rey time to be careful, in matter if s kind, so long as s? I look more closely at is a rusty black. exture of roasted meat. Ss placidly, not speaking, ws.
Must .
Not too far, dearie.
ill roug expression. I say, fretfully, Do you call me t? I wis.
Sure is so bold a so careless, I t my face again to to try to dra e. reet, I think, from here?
I dont like turning back to t walk?
alk, in ts. S. heres
Camden to bad be
good.
ill you talk to me, so? I say again. I am not a child.
And again, senser. e ts and sreet—some street of plain buildings. e turn a er, and till. Presently , grey t of its steps. A girl in a ragged apron is reacaper to lig. ts sreet is perfectly silent.
s to topped and I uand it go on.
heres your house, she says.
tel?
el? S t. Sc my .
ait, I say—feeling real fear no last. do you mean? rey directed you to?
o here!
And w is here?
Its a it? is it to you, ? You s your supper all t leave off gripping me, mind!
Not until you tell me where I am.
Sries to pull I let eeth.
house for ladies, she says, like you.
Like me?
Like you. Poor ladies, here!
I aside.
I dont believe you, I say. I am meant to e to an el. Mr rey paid you for t—
Paid me t you o leave you. Most particular. If you dont like it— So . hy, heres his very hand.
S out a piece of paper. It is t Mr rey put about t __
A , for destitute gentle I gaze at t of disbelief: as if my gazing at t take, I say. mean
tood, or you take me back__
Im t you, and leave you, most particular, subbornly again. "Poor lady, o a cy place." ty, aint it?
So t ans go back to reet!—a, even as I t, I knora of my , rey goo be a, treet—treet in darkness.—? , in London, on my own?
I begin to s am I to do? I say.
, but go over, says to taper is gone, and ttered, t front door at Briar. I see it, and am gripped by panic.
I ot, I say. I ot!
Agaier t t it? Its one or t you s all. Go on out, home.
I ot, I say again. I grab at take me, somewhere else.
Must I? S sead, her look ges. ell, I will, she says; if youll pay me.
Pay you? I o pay you h!
S?
S my skirt.
O it in desperation. I !
ould you?
take the shawl!
ts. Sill looks at my skirt. tilts you got, sly, underh?
I sticoats—tticoats te and one crimson. Shem, and nods.
theyll do.
, botake both?
t t pay me, onyself; and once for him.
I ate—but my skirt trings at my and pull tly as I , draticoats doucks tly under .
tleman dont kno I tell the driver?
So call. I sit myself, feeling t my bare think I would weep, if I had life enough.
o? sreet is filled , slender, filthy-brown.
I bo of my o go. I tell , and tarts up. Stles ably in , rearranges . S me.
All rig ans mind it no, now.
Lant Street is dark o stop at,
from t—tment-coloured sters, t I so e. ares Fuck, o akes me directly into t Ri searcy is ands, e as poill. But ruck.
Oh, my girl, she says.
I dont k. Dainty screams, I t looking. I go up tairs to Mrs Sucksbys room— my room, our room, I suppose I must call it no upon to t . My feet o bleed.
Se, before sly. S at urning tly in to ands at my side. S try to touc srembling.
Dear girl, s. e supposed you drowned, or murdered—
c does not break. Ss and, , she says.
I do. Sakes tays. S ask icoats. S exclaim over my slippers aogs. Ss me, naked, into t to my jas beside me. Srokes my eases out tangles ugs. there, now, she says.
t. I talking, but
talking in where, now, she ays again; and I shiver, for her voice is Sues.
brougs o t I feel h. I y eyes.
e t you lost, s you came back. Dear girl, I knew you should!
I I kne; I never kill now. I hing. No home—
here is your home! she says.
No friends—
here are your friends!
No love—
Shen speaks, in a whisper.
Dear girl, dont you kno I said, a imes—?
I begin to ration, exion. ? I cry, tears. it enougo me you also love me? you smotorment me, er my ?
I takes t of my strengt speak. Scs, until I ill. turns ilts it. I t she is smiling.
ts are gone! Aint it? Surns bae. I ell you, dear girl, sly, t I once bore an infant of my o died? Round about time t t lady, Sues mot told, round queer . . .?
to o s, and reaco stroke my tangled e safe, noroking stops. S up a lock of tone, about your e, and your and hands I knew would be
slender. Only your rat pictured
t from treet-lamp, and from tarnis once I see is plump and must, I uand suddenly, must once s h. Dear girl, she says. My own, my own dear girl—
Sates anot; t last.
记住手机版网址：wap.966xs.com
runs u remember it nearer, lower. I recall a here is no wall here.
No matter. Keep going. Keep t your back, and run. take , and are dark, you must not get caugter t t and ao you. No matter t London is loud. No matter t tter t tare—no matter t t;
t tter t your slippers are silk, t your feet are cut by every stone and der—
So I myself into t is only my e, my distra—t, and per makes t t me, and snaps at my skirt. I time—to see me stagger. You, I say, my side, ell me, ? o reet?—but at they fall back.
I go more slo, treets beyond t I go? I ; for no streets and streets better if I gro? I am lost already . . .
t t, dark and ips of broken roofs, its gold cross gleaming, t Pauls. I kno, from illustrations; and I treet is near it. I turn, pick up my skirts, make for it. t t seems! turns green, t stumble. I ed a street, a square. Instead, I am at top of a set of crooked stairs, leading doo filter. I Pauls is close, after all; but tween us.
I stand and gaze at it, in a sort of of a Briar. I remember seeing it seem to fret and its banks: I t it longed—as I did—to qui, to spread. I did not kno o t flos surface is littered ter—earings of cloth cork
and tilting bottles. It moves, not as a river moves, but as a sea: it breaks, against ts, and tairs and t rise from it, it froths like sour milk.
It is an agony of er and of e; but t, fident as rats—pulling ts, tugging at sails. And t-backed—are ter like gleaners in a field.
t look up, and do not see me, tand for a minute and co, tly, as I bee a me—spot my go stare, t jerks me out of my daze. I turn—go back along take up t I must cross to reac Pauls, but it seems to me t I am lo to be, and I ot find t reets I am ill reeking of dirty er. too—men of ts and o catcle and sometimes call; t touc my er. At last I find a boy, dressed like a servant. o ts me out a fligeps, and stares as I climb them.
Everybody stares—men, earing off a fold of skirt to cover my naked to beg for, me, . But I knoo tear. Dont mind it, Maud. If you start to mind it, you o rise, and I see agai last!—t makes me ear more; and after a moment, I am obliged to stop. t tart of the bridge
into it, a sone benc is a belt of eant for t says upon a sign, to ties upon the river.
I sit. t. I makes me dizzy. I tou a public bridge? I do not knoraffic passes, s and unbroken, like r er. Suppose Rid Ill go on. t. A moment, to find my breatare, I ot see them.
tands before me, and speaks. Im afraid youre unwell.
I open my eyes. A man, ratrao me. I let my hand fall.
Dont be afraid, mean to surprise you.
ouc, makes a sort of bow. be a friend of
my uncles. lemans voice, and e.
udies me closer. his face is kind. Are you unwell?
ill you help me? I say. he hears my void his look
ges.
Of course, is it? Are you ? Not , I say. But I o suffer dreadfully. I— I cast a look at tain people. ill you help me? Oh, I wish you would say you will!
I , already. But, traordinary! And you, a lady— ill you e tell me all your story; I s all. Dont try to speak, just yet. you rise? Im afraid youre injured about t. Dear, dear! Let me look for a cab. ts right.
ake it and stand. Relief , listen to me. I grip o pay you h—
Money? s take it. Dont t!
—But I ake me
to him?
Of course, of course. else? e, look, of tream of traffid s before us. tleman seizes t back. take care, ake care. tep is rather high.
ting my foot. he es behind me
as I do it.
ts rigtily you
climb!
I stop, upon tep. s . Go on, o the coach.
I step back.
After all, I say quickly, I tell me the way?
too to oo weary. Go on.
ill. a struggle.
Nohen! he says, smiling.
I have ged my mind.
e, now.
Let go of me. i
Do you wiso cause a fuss? e, now. I know a house—
A I told you t I only to see my friend?
ell, ter, I togs and taken a tea. Or else—wter.—hmm?
ill kind, ill smiles; but akes my and moves , and tries, again, to le properly, o intervene. From te urn their heads.
to you see? I call.
take is me go, t till calling up. ill you take me? ill you take me, alone? I so pay you, I give you my word, when we arrive.
turns s. No fare, no passage, he says.
t smiling, no are you playing at? Its clear youre in some sort of fix. S you like togs, tea?
But I still call up to tell me, t reacreet. ill you tell me, ake, for there?
s—in s, or laug tell. But Street.
to go of me, I say.
You dont mean it. Let go!
I almost s. tle teaser.
I run. But ter a moment, to matcleman looks out. his face has ged again.
Im sorry, ake you to your friend, I s. Look nt go to reet, t at all like me. e no;
So il finally a line of go on. ts up out my breato so stop, to rest; I dare not, now.
t leave ts anot more anonymous too, I teful for t, terrible. Never mind, never mind, pused.
c is lined and to be, at last: for ts.—Otle money! I tleman offered, from t, and run? too late to no on. ing ts er. I to take? A out and tands staring as I take it.
But reet at last!—Only, noe. ? Not like t so narroill , still brigurning into reet, o step into t s colours. I y, broken, u up, otered cloty picture-frames and classes spilling from t, ate again, o e so suddenly upon to see trays, or piled, s; to see torn, and foxed, and bleanerves me. I stop, and cakes one up. trap of Love.—I kno, I title so many times to my uncle I kno almost by !
ts g; and I walk on. More shops, more books, more men; and finally a window, a
little brig. ts, rings. treys name upon it, iers of flaking gold. I see it, and s stumble.
I expected t. to books and prints, and ts, besides. tand at tently t look up ep and my skirts give a rustle, turn tare. But I am used to stares, by no ttle ing-table, ting at it, dressed in a coat and sleeves. ares, as ts up. are you looking for? h is dry.
I say, quietly, Im looking for Mr rey. I rey.
omers s a little, and look me ain. Mr rey, one a little crey doesnt nt to o t an appoi?
Mr rey kno need an appoi. tomers. s your business h him?
Its private, I say. ill you take me to o me?
t be someto my look, eps back.
Im not sure, after all, if nt to o ts—do you knoairs.
t me go to .
I dont give me a paper, and Ill e my name. . ill you give me a paper?
fie does not move. believe he
house.
t, if I must, I say.
You ot here!
t ; and I there.
tomers; picks up a pencil and puts it
down.
If you will? I say.
you s, o , if it turns out in.1 I nod. Put your name on ting.
I begin to e. t Rie once— o e, Maud Lilly. I am afraid t last— remembering somet tea.
I fold it, and to les into tens, tles again. tsteps. ures to me. I .
And, as I do, one of tomers closes d ly, meaning ts all. Anyone see, t youre a lady . . . o t tone. Of course you do. you?
I say noteps back.
ere seeing, he says, if hes in.
tures beo t, about to slip; a girl falling, falling from tree ... I y eyes. o one of to buy t book, sir—?
Presently, steps, and the door is opened again.
It is Mr rey.
er, and slig
and trousers are creased. ands in tation, does not e into ts my gaze, but does not smile— looks about me, as if to be sure I am aloo eps back to let me pass. Mr rey— I say. s until t is almost a hiss—is:
Good God! Is it you? o me?
I say notand s ra, to akes my arm. to a set of stairs. teps top: In here.
t up for ting and binding of books. Iype; anotreys ly of glue. Its in t ables are piled ty. Oypesetters room—ed glass panels in it. t visible, bending over their work.
t ask me to sit. ands before it. akes out a e.
Good God, s only thing.
, more kindly; and I urn away.
Im sorry, I say. My voice is not steady. Im afraid I o you to weep.
You may ed glass.
But I my tears for a moment, then shakes his head.
My dear, ly at last. have you done?
Dont ask me.
You have run away.
From my uncle, yes.
From your hink.
My ?
he shrugs, colours, looks away.
I say, You t kno t you like of me, I dont care. But you must help me.
ill you?
My dear—
You . I o stay in. You used to like to say you would make me wele—
Despite myself, my voice is rising.
Be calmer, ing o soot not moving from t are my staff to tly, sending up a riddling name . . . ers say, my wife?
I am sorry.
Again s out ell me, o me. You mustnt take your part against your uncle. I never liked to see nt kno you off, you kno, ?
I so me, now.
But o me, you uand. If he should hear of your ing—
.
ell. roubled again. But to e to me! to e akes in my gaudy dress and gloves—y, lustreless, we. I sill frowning, you seem so d your ?
t time—
s at t; t, and starts. your slippers! Your feet are bleeding! Did you leave, shoes?
I must. I hing!
Not shoes?
No. Not so muc.
Rivers keeps you shoes?
believe it. If I mig listening. time tables, takes up a fe.
You oug to . Look at t this!
I catc of a line of print. —you s you, and I sry and , I say, from me? I Briar. ten?
t Briar. You dont uand. lemen, t is Rivers I blame for t—aken you—at least to you closer. you were.
You dont kno know how hes used me!
I dont to kno is not my place to kno tell me.—O yourself! Do you knos? You t iced, surely?
I gaze do my skirt, my slippers. t to only— My voice begins to shake.
You see? o my staff, to my stock—if to e doer as t your feet! Are truly?
o t door. ait o typesetters in it. I see t their heads, hear his
nice.—I dont k care. In sitting, I ired; and t, . ts oables: I lean upon it, and gaze across it—at trimmed, unseurbed or cealed by Mr rey.—and I sill t is is t? I kno, but—it troubles me—I ot .
—so, so, so, so, so, you like the birch, do you?
Mr rey returns. er; also a glass, er for me to drink.
ting tting t to me; t? Just enougo take the blood away, for now
ter is cold. I t and to my face. Mr rey looks round and sees me do it. Youre not feveris ill?—I am only tle of it. Very good, he says.
I look again at t upon table; but t escapes me, still. Mr rey ccs o es at thumb, and frowns.
I say, Yood, to her men would blame me.
No, no. I said? It is Rivers I blame. Never mind. tell me, no money have you, upon you now?
I have none.
No mo all?
I ake a plainer one, anyway.
Sell yown? speak so oddly, will you? hen you go back—
Go back? to Briar?
to Briar? I mean, to your husband.
to . I ot go back to akeo escape him!
he shakes his head. Mrs Rivers— he says. I shudder.
Dont call me t, I say, I beg you.
Again, so odd! ougo call you, if not t?
Call me Maud. You asked me, just no, and nothing else.
be foolisen to me, now. I am sorry for you. You you—?
I laugarts; and typesetters look up. , turns bae.
ill you be reasonable? ly, warningly.
But ?
A quarrel, I say. You t a quarrel. You t, ? You kno guess , I t tell you. Its too great a thing.
is?
A secret t say. I ot— O . you like t is type? I say. ill you tell me?
ype? e ged.
t.
For a sed ansly.
Clarendon. Clarendon. I kne, after all. I tio gaze at t my fio t—until Mr rey es and places a blank s upon it, as hers.
Dont look t stare so! is tter be ill.
I am not ill, I ansired. I y eyes. I ay here, and sleep.
Stay ay sound of t eadily, I am only tired. But anse, again, at tciously, from trey— I
say.
I is you mean to do. o get you from t bring a cab, I suppose, to the building.
ill you do t?
You o go, to sleep? to eat?
I have nowhere!
You must go hen.
I ot do t. I tle money, a little time. to find, to save—
to save?
to find. to find. And, tle ed, Mr rey. I find an man— You knoo be. Again, c does not speak. I say, You know I am rich. If youll only help me, now. If youll only keep me—
Keep you! Do you know w you are saying? Keep you, where?
Not in your own house?
My house?
I t—
My ers? No, no. o pace.
But at Briar you said, many times—
I told you? t Briar. t like Briar. You must find t out. leave a live, in London, on nothink you will live?
I do not know. I supposed— I supposed you would give me money,
I to say. I look about me. truck I not, I say, work for you?
ands still. For me?
Mig ing togeting, even? I kno room!—I sake it secretly, Rie. I stle money— enougo find out my friend, to find out an la is it?
still, all time; but his look has ged, is odd.
Noter.
I suppose I am flus of ter inside my breast, like a sable and leans upon it, not looking at me, but t dourns back. catch my eye.
Listen to me, ly. You ot stay . I must send for a cab, to take you. I— I must send for some o go h you.
Go h me, where?
to some—el. Noo set doion upon a slip of paper. Some , ake a supper.
? I say. I dont t, ever again! But a room! A room!—And o me tonig answer. Mr rey?
Not tonigill ing. tonig.
tomorrohen.
o dry it; t. tomorrow, he says. If I .
You must!
Yes, yes.
And t? Say you will!
. Yes.
thank God!
I put my ay go from here.
I ep, to t door; and o one of typesetters—see t, trey es bay feet.
Put your surning a be
ready
You are kind, Mr rey, I say, as I lean to tug on my broken slippers. God kno.
tractedly. Dont t, now . . .
t in silence. s, takes out co top of tairs, to stand and listen. At last he goes and es quickly back.
this way, carefully.
akes me do of rooms, piled es and boxes, and t of scullery, to a door. to a little grey area: teps from to an alley. A cab s t, a woman. She sees us and nods.
You knoo do? Mr rey says to ten. o be kind to her. have you some shawl?
Ss about me, to cover up my against my cill is almost treet.
At to turn. I take Mr reys hand.
You omorrow?
Of course.
You talk of to anyone? Youll remember the danger I spoke of?
ly. tter than I. ?
trey!
o tates, before lifting my fio . of turning ake out urn, pull out of treet—nortell; for I kain—t cross the river.
e go very fitfully, raffic is t t first, creets, t t and study treets from there.
Only after some time of t tches my eye.
All rig smiling. her voice is rough as her fingers.
Do I begin, to feel sure. I ter all, Mr rey time to be careful, in matter if s kind, so long as s? I look more closely at is a rusty black. exture of roasted meat. Ss placidly, not speaking, ws.
Must .
Not too far, dearie.
ill roug expression. I say, fretfully, Do you call me t? I wis.
Sure is so bold a so careless, I t my face again to to try to dra e. reet, I think, from here?
I dont like turning back to t walk?
alk, in ts. S. heres
Camden to bad be
good.
ill you talk to me, so? I say again. I am not a child.
And again, senser. e ts and sreet—some street of plain buildings. e turn a er, and till. Presently , grey t of its steps. A girl in a ragged apron is reacaper to lig. ts sreet is perfectly silent.
s to topped and I uand it go on.
heres your house, she says.
tel?
el? S t. Sc my .
ait, I say—feeling real fear no last. do you mean? rey directed you to?
o here!
And w is here?
Its a it? is it to you, ? You s your supper all t leave off gripping me, mind!
Not until you tell me where I am.
Sries to pull I let eeth.
house for ladies, she says, like you.
Like me?
Like you. Poor ladies, here!
I aside.
I dont believe you, I say. I am meant to e to an el. Mr rey paid you for t—
Paid me t you o leave you. Most particular. If you dont like it— So . hy, heres his very hand.
S out a piece of paper. It is t Mr rey put about t __
A , for destitute gentle I gaze at t of disbelief: as if my gazing at t take, I say. mean
tood, or you take me back__
Im t you, and leave you, most particular, subbornly again. "Poor lady, o a cy place." ty, aint it?
So t ans go back to reet!—a, even as I t, I knora of my , rey goo be a, treet—treet in darkness.—? , in London, on my own?
I begin to s am I to do? I say.
, but go over, says to taper is gone, and ttered, t front door at Briar. I see it, and am gripped by panic.
I ot, I say. I ot!
Agaier t t it? Its one or t you s all. Go on out, home.
I ot, I say again. I grab at take me, somewhere else.
Must I? S sead, her look ges. ell, I will, she says; if youll pay me.
Pay you? I o pay you h!
S?
S my skirt.
O it in desperation. I !
ould you?
take the shawl!
ts. Sill looks at my skirt. tilts you got, sly, underh?
I sticoats—tticoats te and one crimson. Shem, and nods.
theyll do.
, botake both?
t t pay me, onyself; and once for him.
I ate—but my skirt trings at my and pull tly as I , draticoats doucks tly under .
tleman dont kno I tell the driver?
So call. I sit myself, feeling t my bare think I would weep, if I had life enough.
o? sreet is filled , slender, filthy-brown.
I bo of my o go. I tell , and tarts up. Stles ably in , rearranges . S me.
All rig ans mind it no, now.
Lant Street is dark o stop at,
from t—tment-coloured sters, t I so e. ares Fuck, o akes me directly into t Ri searcy is ands, e as poill. But ruck.
Oh, my girl, she says.
I dont k. Dainty screams, I t looking. I go up tairs to Mrs Sucksbys room— my room, our room, I suppose I must call it no upon to t . My feet o bleed.
Se, before sly. S at urning tly in to ands at my side. S try to touc srembling.
Dear girl, s. e supposed you drowned, or murdered—
c does not break. Ss and, , she says.
I do. Sakes tays. S ask icoats. S exclaim over my slippers aogs. Ss me, naked, into t to my jas beside me. Srokes my eases out tangles ugs. there, now, she says.
t. I talking, but
talking in where, now, she ays again; and I shiver, for her voice is Sues.
brougs o t I feel h. I y eyes.
e t you lost, s you came back. Dear girl, I knew you should!
I I kne; I never kill now. I hing. No home—
here is your home! she says.
No friends—
here are your friends!
No love—
Shen speaks, in a whisper.
Dear girl, dont you kno I said, a imes—?
I begin to ration, exion. ? I cry, tears. it enougo me you also love me? you smotorment me, er my ?
I takes t of my strengt speak. Scs, until I ill. turns ilts it. I t she is smiling.
ts are gone! Aint it? Surns bae. I ell you, dear girl, sly, t I once bore an infant of my o died? Round about time t t lady, Sues mot told, round queer . . .?
to o s, and reaco stroke my tangled e safe, noroking stops. S up a lock of tone, about your e, and your and hands I knew would be
slender. Only your rat pictured
t from treet-lamp, and from tarnis once I see is plump and must, I uand suddenly, must once s h. Dear girl, she says. My own, my own dear girl—
Sates anot; t last.
记住手机版网址：wap.966xs.com