drive Richard to a fury: he pursues them with a slipper, red-faced and sweating.—''You know I am a gentleman''s son?'' he will say. ''Would you think it, to look at me now? Would you?''
I do not answer. I have begun, like him, to long for the coming of Sue''s birthday in August. I will say anything they wish, I think, to any kind of solicitor or lawyer. But I pass my days in a sort of restless lethargy; and at night—for it is too hot to sleep—at night I
d at the narrow window in Mrs Sucksby''s room, gazing blankly
at the street.
Tome away from there, sweetheart,'' Mrs Sucksby will murmur f he wakes. They say there is cholera in the Borough. ''Who knows but you won''t take a fever, from the draught?''
May one take a fever, from a draught of foetid air? I lie down at her side until she sleeps; then go back to the window, press my face to the gap between the sashes, breathe deeper.
I almost forget that I mean to escape. Perhaps they sense it. For at last they leave me, one afternoon—at the start of July, I think— with only Dainty to guard me.
''You watch her close,'' Mrs Sucksby tells her, drawing on gloves. ''Anything happen to her, I''ll kill you.'' Me, she kisses. All right, my dear? I shan''t be gone an hour. Bring you back a present, shall I?''
I do not answer. Dainty lets her out, then pockets the key. She sits, draws a lamp across the table-top, and takes up work. Not washing napkins—for there are fewer babies, now: Mrs Sucksby has begun to find homes for them, and the house is daily growing stiller—but the pulling of silk stitches from stolen handkerchiefs. She does it listlessly, however. ''Dull work,'' she says, seeing me look. ''Sue used to do this. Care to try?''