Echoes
LADY Clara Vere de VereWas eight years old, she said:Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.
She took her little porringer:Of me she shall not win renown:For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.
“Sisters and brothers, little Maid?There stands the Inspector at thy door:Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.”
“Kind words are more than coronets,”She said, and wondering looked at me:“It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.”