Chapter Nine (第2/2页)
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 o 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 terfeit.—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 insufficy—like tyr or a saint, of ty for pain.
t oclock sounds, to call me to my u 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 rying out my boots, my gloves, my sasake an eye-glass to my jeo sell t o her young man . . .
You are distracted, Maud, my uncle says. ion to wtend?
No, sir, I say.
Pertle labour. Per I you at taking you from t perics, than among books? hmm?
No, Uncle.
urn to es. But he goes on.
It ter enougo summon Mrs Stiles and ake you back. You are sure you dont desire me to do t?—send for illiam Inker and t? As o study me, acles t guard it. t smiles. voice, you know now?
sloion over; as if it is a biscuit t crumbs beongue. I do not ans loil . Presently s the pages upon his desk.
So, so. tuation all plete; and mark—te the sequence here.
It is from t I am reading ake me bay dra ted ing fi my uncle keeps to mark t Briar, just as I once did; and—again, like me—i,
and tries to cross it. I must keep , more even t!—and o ouc the feel of my fingers.
I say, Dont be frighe floor.
I ten t, of course, s look at anyt all, it would be so muceful kind of envy. I o draw back my hand from her arm, for fear I will pinch her.
I ask o my room, does shink of my uncle?
Sionary.
e sit at luncite, and pass my plate to c be an aueer, a : sem of cutlery as if gauging tal from . Ss tly into s t t about t. Sougue to some spot upon hen swallows again.
You o Briar, I to swallow up me.
But of course, I o do it. I need o do it. And already I seem to feel myself 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 sed: 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 sed 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,
be.
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 laoaking up s kneel and pray, as Agnes did. Ss on of my sig lifts : I see toe of oo 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 innoce. So did I, once. I a moment, take out my moture and close to my mouth.
ts s er now!
less it seems! But so vividly of, in years—of t ics; and of t oings of coir, a piece of text on t is to do t sent me. I remember an attic stair, a ness of lead beful drop to the ground—
I must fall into sleep, t pluo t layers of t. But t quite quite draugging of tly be my form in t seems sing and queer—no say o s. I call fnes. I e fotten t sten Ric. I call fnes, and it seems to me s so take a do it to punis take t! I say; but sakes it, serrible darkness and I , beyond tain. It seems to me t mucime passes before t es back. But and sees my face, she screams.
Dont look at me! I cry. And t leave me! For I , if say, some calamity, some dreadful t kno, ot —ed; and I—
or sne—o be freckled. I gaze at know her.
S is strao me: Its Sue, miss. Only Sue. You see me? You are dreaming.
Dreaming?
Souc like Agnes, after all, but like— Like no-one. Ss Sue. t Agnes ina, and is gone back lie dont be ill.
I s; t ond I kno, my ungaugeable future. Srao me, but part of it all.
Dont leave me, Sue! I say.
I feel ate. ig so climb ae, and s and lies me, my hair.
S sooill. t. I feel t of le rumble of you? Good girl.
Good girl, s been sinyo Briar believed me good? But s. S believe it, for t. I must be good, and kind, and simple. Isnt gold said to be good? I am like gold to er all. So ruin me; but, not yet. For no, to squander—
I kno; but ot feel it as I sill, and o tir. Souc a little of its s meets mine, quite clear, untinged lifts and falls, and
sour es gusting. I lie and remember t. Some feeling—sters about my . I put my o t cool.
S brings er, and ster use it quick. Ss a clot and, , unasked, ay fad beo , so suts: tarigles is, to start at ttom ..."
Agnes o ruck for Susan—Sue, s—no patiently s from my he glass . . .
Good girl.
thank you, Sue, I say.
I say it often, in ts t follo to Ag or stand, lift an arm or foot. No, Sue, w pinch me.
No, I am not cold.—But so look me over as o be quite sure; tle my t, to keep off draugs are not taking in t soged ankle and taintys sake. I must not caty cost. I must not tire. ouldnt you say you nt groouc you take a little more? I mustnt gro must be plump, to be s slaughter.
Of course, t kno, it is s be plump—sime, to sleep, to o dress, to o a pattern, to signals and bells. Sies me! S uanding t ts and t bind me will, soon, bind her. Bind her, like morocco or like calf ... I have grown
used to t of book. o me not text. Se fles you pale! s not ted blood beh.
I oug to do it. I ot . I am too pelled by ance, proo nigmares e, o my bed, a sed nig last sinely. I t first; but it is only t trouble ands eacime ed dle, peering into t you t miging to drop? S, and s; a single beetle falls, in a s.
Once groo t, and fortable o sleeping h someone; and wonder who.
Do you ers, Sue? I ask er she river.
No, miss.
Brothers?
Not as I know of, she says.
And so you gree alone?
ell, miss, not .
Cousins. You mean, your aunts children?
My aunt? She looks blank.
Your aunt, Mr Riverss nurse.
Oo be sure . . .
Surns ao imagi; and ot. I try to imagine ongued, s, ongue—for sometimes, o my hair, or frowning over
slit—ongue . I ch her sigh.
Never mind, I say—like any kindly mistress . e so London. to London, I take t does not.
S at t at me.
thames? she says.*
this river, here.
trifling bit of er, tainly. be? t—and this is narrow. Do you see?
I say, after a moment, t I rivers grohey flow. She shakes her head.
trifling bit of er? ser o it ts stern is marked in six-incters, ROt sing, not to t to t from ttering engine. See t? sedly. ts s all t;
S er browns, e falls; and shief again.
You must uand, I ermio despise o do do?— is only t so long togeto be intimate. And ion of intimacy is not like Agness—not like Barbaras—not like any ladys maids. Soo frank, too loose, too free. S spots and grazes. S pig over some old dry cut upon a pin, miss? sen
minutes probing t. to me.
But s, taking care to keep t from my soft fingers. Dont yourself, se fet t s ss it, too.
One day sakes my arm as is noto I feel t, like a slap. Anotime, after sitting, I plain t my feet are cakes my feet in oes. So dress me as stle y goables, and finds primroses in to put in t get t you get in London, in try, ss t tty enoug they?
S brira coals for my fires, from Mr ay. Suco do!—a no-oo do it before, for my sake; even I t to do it; and so I ers. t makes to stand, ts and spirals upon the glass.
Oime sable spread for a sed it quite discerts me, to imagine my motually ting ting out till sane—pering, ing . . .
I take up a card. It slides against my glove. But in Sues s it, s, ly and nimbly; and tween oniso learn I
ot play; and at once makes me sit, so sea, but sly, almost greedily—tilting ired, sand tilt tips togetimes ructure, a kind of pyramid of cards—alop-most point, a king and a queen.
Look ion; and as tructure topples, she will laugh.
Sra Briar, as I imagi must be in a prison or a cimes, salk of dang. Ss , to sep. to my feet, and turns and turns me; and I feel, of —I feel it pass from o me and beine.
Finally I let ed toothimble.
Let me look, so t.
I stand at t back my of beer upon it—warm also. S my gum.
ell, t is shan—
ts tooth, Sue?
to say. S eeth, miss?
I t, sio bite.
ts true, sractedly. Only, I ;
So my dressing-room. I see, t, t: ss may break beoes of careless risers and make tioned me, in a similar spirit, against tepping on, in naked feet, of
o ter); tor-oil; and t, or fligems on my dressing-table, s, then call.
Dont you know anyone we, Sue?
A se, miss? Sill fro the Zoo?
ell, per the Zoo.
I t say as I do.
Curious. I ain, you kno you would.
I smile, t. t; I see for t time you, sg my ging face.
Are you sure?
Yes, miss. If I , you may scream; and top.
It does not , I do not scream. But it makes for a queer mix of sensations: tal, tness of udies toot at black. I look at t, its lobe pierced ts. Pierced, o ting my fiips to ttle dimples in t of ice . . . ty does t for me.—Almost got it! o test tootricky to do to an infant, of course. For if you o let slip t like t.
I do not knoongue rises and moves against ooo big, toe; and I tarnishe silver—
I t a running, I taste it. Pero tle lo tooto a sort of panic; but noops. Sests again my jahen draws back.
I emerge from tle unsteadily. Sigo my face. I songue ay bluoote from till upon it. t—not tarnis tarnis all. I asted, or imagine I asted, is taste of .
May a lady taste t makes me colour.
And it is as I am standing, feeling to my c a girl es to my door ter, from Ri to expect it. I ten to t, our marriage, te. I ten to t take tter and, trembling, break its seal.
Are you as impatient as I? es. I kno you are. Do you . is over. My business in London is done, and I am ing!
记住手机版网址：wap.966xs.com
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 o 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 terfeit.—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 insufficy—like tyr or a saint, of ty for pain.
t oclock sounds, to call me to my u 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 rying out my boots, my gloves, my sasake an eye-glass to my jeo sell t o her young man . . .
You are distracted, Maud, my uncle says. ion to wtend?
No, sir, I say.
Pertle labour. Per I you at taking you from t perics, than among books? hmm?
No, Uncle.
urn to es. But he goes on.
It ter enougo summon Mrs Stiles and ake you back. You are sure you dont desire me to do t?—send for illiam Inker and t? As o study me, acles t guard it. t smiles. voice, you know now?
sloion over; as if it is a biscuit t crumbs beongue. I do not ans loil . Presently s the pages upon his desk.
So, so. tuation all plete; and mark—te the sequence here.
It is from t I am reading ake me bay dra ted ing fi my uncle keeps to mark t Briar, just as I once did; and—again, like me—i,
and tries to cross it. I must keep , more even t!—and o ouc the feel of my fingers.
I say, Dont be frighe floor.
I ten t, of course, s look at anyt all, it would be so muceful kind of envy. I o draw back my hand from her arm, for fear I will pinch her.
I ask o my room, does shink of my uncle?
Sionary.
e sit at luncite, and pass my plate to c be an aueer, a : sem of cutlery as if gauging tal from . Ss tly into s t t about t. Sougue to some spot upon hen swallows again.
You o Briar, I to swallow up me.
But of course, I o do it. I need o do it. And already I seem to feel myself 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 sed: 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 sed 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,
be.
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 laoaking up s kneel and pray, as Agnes did. Ss on of my sig lifts : I see toe of oo 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 innoce. So did I, once. I a moment, take out my moture and close to my mouth.
ts s er now!
less it seems! But so vividly of, in years—of t ics; and of t oings of coir, a piece of text on t is to do t sent me. I remember an attic stair, a ness of lead beful drop to the ground—
I must fall into sleep, t pluo t layers of t. But t quite quite draugging of tly be my form in t seems sing and queer—no say o s. I call fnes. I e fotten t sten Ric. I call fnes, and it seems to me s so take a do it to punis take t! I say; but sakes it, serrible darkness and I , beyond tain. It seems to me t mucime passes before t es back. But and sees my face, she screams.
Dont look at me! I cry. And t leave me! For I , if say, some calamity, some dreadful t kno, ot —ed; and I—
or sne—o be freckled. I gaze at know her.
S is strao me: Its Sue, miss. Only Sue. You see me? You are dreaming.
Dreaming?
Souc like Agnes, after all, but like— Like no-one. Ss Sue. t Agnes ina, and is gone back lie dont be ill.
I s; t ond I kno, my ungaugeable future. Srao me, but part of it all.
Dont leave me, Sue! I say.
I feel ate. ig so climb ae, and s and lies me, my hair.
S sooill. t. I feel t of le rumble of you? Good girl.
Good girl, s been sinyo Briar believed me good? But s. S believe it, for t. I must be good, and kind, and simple. Isnt gold said to be good? I am like gold to er all. So ruin me; but, not yet. For no, to squander—
I kno; but ot feel it as I sill, and o tir. Souc a little of its s meets mine, quite clear, untinged lifts and falls, and
sour es gusting. I lie and remember t. Some feeling—sters about my . I put my o t cool.
S brings er, and ster use it quick. Ss a clot and, , unasked, ay fad beo , so suts: tarigles is, to start at ttom ..."
Agnes o ruck for Susan—Sue, s—no patiently s from my he glass . . .
Good girl.
thank you, Sue, I say.
I say it often, in ts t follo to Ag or stand, lift an arm or foot. No, Sue, w pinch me.
No, I am not cold.—But so look me over as o be quite sure; tle my t, to keep off draugs are not taking in t soged ankle and taintys sake. I must not caty cost. I must not tire. ouldnt you say you nt groouc you take a little more? I mustnt gro must be plump, to be s slaughter.
Of course, t kno, it is s be plump—sime, to sleep, to o dress, to o a pattern, to signals and bells. Sies me! S uanding t ts and t bind me will, soon, bind her. Bind her, like morocco or like calf ... I have grown
used to t of book. o me not text. Se fles you pale! s not ted blood beh.
I oug to do it. I ot . I am too pelled by ance, proo nigmares e, o my bed, a sed nig last sinely. I t first; but it is only t trouble ands eacime ed dle, peering into t you t miging to drop? S, and s; a single beetle falls, in a s.
Once groo t, and fortable o sleeping h someone; and wonder who.
Do you ers, Sue? I ask er she river.
No, miss.
Brothers?
Not as I know of, she says.
And so you gree alone?
ell, miss, not .
Cousins. You mean, your aunts children?
My aunt? She looks blank.
Your aunt, Mr Riverss nurse.
Oo be sure . . .
Surns ao imagi; and ot. I try to imagine ongued, s, ongue—for sometimes, o my hair, or frowning over
slit—ongue . I ch her sigh.
Never mind, I say—like any kindly mistress . e so London. to London, I take t does not.
S at t at me.
thames? she says.*
this river, here.
trifling bit of er, tainly. be? t—and this is narrow. Do you see?
I say, after a moment, t I rivers grohey flow. She shakes her head.
trifling bit of er? ser o it ts stern is marked in six-incters, ROt sing, not to t to t from ttering engine. See t? sedly. ts s all t;
S er browns, e falls; and shief again.
You must uand, I ermio despise o do do?— is only t so long togeto be intimate. And ion of intimacy is not like Agness—not like Barbaras—not like any ladys maids. Soo frank, too loose, too free. S spots and grazes. S pig over some old dry cut upon a pin, miss? sen
minutes probing t. to me.
But s, taking care to keep t from my soft fingers. Dont yourself, se fet t s ss it, too.
One day sakes my arm as is noto I feel t, like a slap. Anotime, after sitting, I plain t my feet are cakes my feet in oes. So dress me as stle y goables, and finds primroses in to put in t get t you get in London, in try, ss t tty enoug they?
S brira coals for my fires, from Mr ay. Suco do!—a no-oo do it before, for my sake; even I t to do it; and so I ers. t makes to stand, ts and spirals upon the glass.
Oime sable spread for a sed it quite discerts me, to imagine my motually ting ting out till sane—pering, ing . . .
I take up a card. It slides against my glove. But in Sues s it, s, ly and nimbly; and tween oniso learn I
ot play; and at once makes me sit, so sea, but sly, almost greedily—tilting ired, sand tilt tips togetimes ructure, a kind of pyramid of cards—alop-most point, a king and a queen.
Look ion; and as tructure topples, she will laugh.
Sra Briar, as I imagi must be in a prison or a cimes, salk of dang. Ss , to sep. to my feet, and turns and turns me; and I feel, of —I feel it pass from o me and beine.
Finally I let ed toothimble.
Let me look, so t.
I stand at t back my of beer upon it—warm also. S my gum.
ell, t is shan—
ts tooth, Sue?
to say. S eeth, miss?
I t, sio bite.
ts true, sractedly. Only, I ;
So my dressing-room. I see, t, t: ss may break beoes of careless risers and make tioned me, in a similar spirit, against tepping on, in naked feet, of
o ter); tor-oil; and t, or fligems on my dressing-table, s, then call.
Dont you know anyone we, Sue?
A se, miss? Sill fro the Zoo?
ell, per the Zoo.
I t say as I do.
Curious. I ain, you kno you would.
I smile, t. t; I see for t time you, sg my ging face.
Are you sure?
Yes, miss. If I , you may scream; and top.
It does not , I do not scream. But it makes for a queer mix of sensations: tal, tness of udies toot at black. I look at t, its lobe pierced ts. Pierced, o ting my fiips to ttle dimples in t of ice . . . ty does t for me.—Almost got it! o test tootricky to do to an infant, of course. For if you o let slip t like t.
I do not knoongue rises and moves against ooo big, toe; and I tarnishe silver—
I t a running, I taste it. Pero tle lo tooto a sort of panic; but noops. Sests again my jahen draws back.
I emerge from tle unsteadily. Sigo my face. I songue ay bluoote from till upon it. t—not tarnis tarnis all. I asted, or imagine I asted, is taste of .
May a lady taste t makes me colour.
And it is as I am standing, feeling to my c a girl es to my door ter, from Ri to expect it. I ten to t, our marriage, te. I ten to t take tter and, trembling, break its seal.
Are you as impatient as I? es. I kno you are. Do you . is over. My business in London is done, and I am ing!
记住手机版网址：wap.966xs.com