flesh, and fester); the darkening of eye-lashes with impure castor-oil; and the reckless climbing—for purposes of concealment, or flight—of chimneys. Now, looking through the items on my dressing-table, she says no more. I wait, then call.
''Don''t you know anyone who died from a snake-bite, Sue?''
''A snake-bite, miss?'' She reappears, still frowning. ''In London? Do you mean, at the Zoo?''
''Well, perhaps at the Zoo.''
''I can''t say as I do.''
''Curious. I was certain, you know, that you would.''
I smile, though she does not. Then she shows me her hand, with the thimble on it; I see for the first time what she means to do, and perhaps look strange. ''It won''t hurt you,'' she says, watching my changing face.
''Are you sure?''
''Yes, miss. If I hurt, you may scream; and then I will stop.''
It does not hurt, I do not scream. But it makes for a queer mix of sensations: the grinding of the metal, the pressure of her hand holding my jaw, the softness of her breath. As she studies the tooth she files, I can look nowhere but at her face; and so I look at her eyes: one is marked, I see now, with a fleck of darker brown, almost black. I look at the line of her cheek—which is smooth; and her ear—which is neat, its lobe pierced through for the wearing of hoops and pendants. ''Pierced, how?'' I asked her once, going close to her, putting my finger-tips to the little dimples in the curving flesh. ''Why, miss, with a needle,'' she said, ''and a bit of ice . . .'' The thimble rubs on. She smiles. ''My aunty does this,'' she says as she works, ''for babies. I dare say she done it for me.—Almost got it! Ha!'' She grinds more slowly, then pauses, to test the tooth. Then she rubs again. ''Tricky thing to do to an infant, of course. For if you happen to let slip the thimble—well. I know several as were lost like that.''