in a year's time perhaps, and the same things were said over again.

A tie of blood – or whatever the fluid was that ran in Miss V.'s veins – made it my particular fate to run against her – or pass through her or dissipate her, whatever the phrase may be – more constantly perhaps than any other person, until this little performance became almost a habit. No party or concert or gallery seemed quite complete unless the familiar grey shadow was part of it; and when, some time ago, she ceased to haunt my path, I knew vaguely that something was missing. I will not exaggerate and say that I knew that _she_ was missing; but there is no insincerity in using the neuter term.

Thus in awhich proves somehow how genuine the whole thing is. You can not be sentimental about a house you have lived in for five hundred years. This is the kind of place, I thought, as I stood with my hand on the bell, where the owners are likely to possess exquisite manuscripts, and sell them as easily [to] the first rag man who comes along, as they would sell their pig wash, or the timber from the park. My point of view is that of a morbid eccentric, after all, and these are the people of truly healthy nature. Can't they write? they will tell me; and what is the worth of old letters? I always burn mine – or use them to tie over jampots.

A maid came, at