lady clara vere de vere

was 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.”