en, of who might be waiting for her, in that dark thieves'' den in London: the aunt, the mother or grandmother. I think how restless she must be, as she counts off the lengthening days that keep her little fin-gersmith on perilous business, far from home. I imagine her, as she waits, taking out some small thing of Sue''s—some sash, some necklace, some bracelet of gaudy charms—and turning it, over and over, in her hands . . .
She will turn it for ever, though she does not know it yet. Nor does Sue suppose that the last time she kissed her aunt''s hard cheek was the last of all her life.
I think of that; and I am gripped with what I take to be pity. It is hard, painful, surprising: I feel it, and am afraid. Afraid of what my future may cost me. Afraid of that future itself, and of the unfamiliar, ungovernable emotions with which it might be filled.
She does not know it. He must not know it, either. He comes that
afternoon—comes, as he used to come, in the days of Agnes: takes my hand, holds my gaze with his, bends to kiss my knuckles. ''Miss Lilly/ he says, in a tone of caress. He is dressed darkly, neatly; yet carries his daring, his confidence, close and gaudy about him, like swirls of colour or perfume. I feel the heat of his mouth, even through my gloves. Then he turns to Sue, and she makes a curtsey. The stiff-bodiced dress is not made for curtseying in, however: the dip is a jagged one, the fringes upon her skirt tumble together and seem to shake. Her colour rises. I see him smile as he notes it. But I see, too, that he marks the gown, and perhaps also the whiteness of her fingers. ''I should have supposed her a lady, I''m sure,'' he says, to me. He moves to her side. There, he seems tall, and darker than ever, like a bear; and she seems slight. He takes her hand, his fingers moving about hers: they seem large, also—his thumb extends almost to the bone of her wrist. He says, ''I hope you are proving a good girl for your mistress, Sue.''