, gaudy things—poor stuff, it seems to me, all of it: hats, handkerchiefs, cheap jewels, lengths of lace—once a hank of yellow hair still bound with a ribbon. A tumbling stream of things—not like the books that came to Briar, that came as if sinking to rest on the bed of a viscid sea, through dim and silent fathoms; nor like the things the books described, the things of convenience and purpose—the chairs, the pillows, the beds, the curtains, the ropes, the rods . . .
There are no books, here. There is only life in all its awful chaos. And the only purpose the things are made to serve, is the making of money.
And the greatest money-making thing of all, is me.
''Not chilly, dear girl?'' Mrs Sucksby will say. ''Not peckish? Why, how warm your brow is! Not taking a fever, I hope? We can''t have you sick.'' I do not answer. I have heard it all before. I let her tuck rugs about me, I let her sit and chafe my fingers and cheek. ''Are you rather low?'' she''ll say. ''Just look at them lips. They''d look handsome in a smile, they would. Not going to smile? Not even''—she swal-lows—''for me? Only glance, dear girl, at the almanack.'' She has scored through the days with crosses of black. ''There''s a month nearly gone by already, and only two more to come. Then we know what follows! That ain''t so long, is it?''
She says it, almost pleadingly; but I gaze steadily into her face— as if to say that a day, an hour, a second, is too long, when passed with her.