tart,  I  too  is t of my mistakes.

    I imagine a table, slick oo muc. t, I t runs, like ink. I to save t do migaggered beating of clocks. Beyond t come oter cries: tics, ts and scolds of nurses. For table raps upon it to keep o trap separates o prevent ting of ongue; anot  I migraps remain: tear me in t me upon  . I suck, and the

    about me. till, t falling blood— drip drop! drip, drop!—t telling off t fees of my life, t of hen sinks for ever.

    I feel it, and suck  me.

    I pass my first ten years a daugo tabby cat upon t cat, a to pet and dress e-grey go like t ure keys upon it, and call me little nurse. I sleep urn, in ties upon to me, I suppose—and divided in tics, one side for male. I see only t me, as toucers. Otroublesome, and to stand before and strike  to my il thing so droll.

    ts of discipline and order; and incidentally appretitudes of insanity. ter.

    o reason I am given a gold ring said to be my fatrait of a lady called my motand I am an orp, never s love—or rat greatly troubled by t, in t cy. I  singing voice and an eye for letters. I I suppose I s all my days a nurse, contentedly teasing lunatics until I die.

    So  nine and ten. Some time in my elevento tron of to make me some treat. I am ead, she

    greets me strangely, and  meet my eye. tleman, s ttle to me. It ime. Step closer, tron says. tleman c of black, and a pair of black silk gloves. ter to study me. ending to il I stand before s o pass ongue across tongue is