ps 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 quicken, 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, confident 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 become 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 cannot 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 stare