She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. She had imagined she had drowned them altogether. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. I’ll kill you, Sheila, and I’ll kill her too. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched.
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