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and wet. I move my wet mouth rapidly against the pups, the wiggling limbs and necks of the pups. My teats give milk. They give no milk. The milk comes from the dairy. The children drink milk. They eat cakes. The governess watches them eat. Her skin shines with grease. Her hair shines with grease. Her skin has spots. She plays with her spots while they eat.

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    The vicar had a daughter. The vicar's daughter sang behind a hedge. The vicar's daughter sang like a linnet. She took a large book behind the hedge. She took a cup of overdrawn tea. Hours are always passing. The books are bound in buckram. The little book is mensuration. The large book, voyages and lives. The vicar's daughter sang. The poplars swayed. The vicar was afloat in the mill pond. His clothes were folded on a stone. The tea grew very dark and cold. The vicar's daughter climbed into the gig. Linnets sang along the roadway. Beside the manse, the children played with sticks and cords. They tipped her trunk. They dragged her dresses through the mud. They struck her face with clods. Hours are always passing. The large girl is Mistress Ann. The little boy is Master Charles. The vicar's daughter crawled into the fire. She held a little, singeing book. She chased the children through the mole traps in the garden. She ran behind the peat house. She followed sounds into the stables. The vicar's daughter climbed upon a three-legged stool. She cut the dog down from the beam. The dog sagged. The rope thudded on the straw. Weasels were nailed to the fence posts. The mole traps swarmed with flies. Down the wooded bank, primroses peeked from twisted roots. The vicar's daughter sang. She sat in the brook. The boy stopped kicking beneath her. The water felt good. The vicar's daughter let the water numb her hands.

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    Tamworth wiggles in her chair. She makes fists of her fat little hands. Ragbaby, says Tamworth. It wants ragbaby. She puts the fists to her ears. The squealing noise does not stop. Tamworth wiggles. The reddish lids twitch against the bulge of her eyes. Tamworth is grown. She makes a smell that comes from her lap in the chair. Her dress is bunched in her lap in the chair. The fabric is gray. It smells. She puts her fat little hands in her lap. She wiggles. I hear the air move in her mouth, through her lips. She is grown. Tamworth shifts in the nursery chair. Her thighs hang over the sides of the chair. She needs a new dress, a big dress, for the ball. There is a ballroom in the house. The house is grand. There are towers and there must be a ballroom. There is a music Master. He crossed the moat. He wore gloves. His coat split in the back like a bird's tail or the hoof of a pig. He had a fine high voice and he sang as he crossed the moat. He whistled as he crossed the moat. Tamworth must learn to play music. A lady plays music. A lady goes to a room. Not the nursery. A lady does not suffer the mess of the nursery, the smell of the nursery. A lady goes to a drawing room. It is called a drawing room. Beneath the ballroom of a grand house, there is a drawing room. There is a drawing Master. He carried paints across the moat. He dropped the paints into the moat and the paints lay on top of the water. Yellow lay on top of the water. Red lay on top of the water. Flies settled on the red. The drawing Master made paint with urine from the dairy. The cows lifted their tails and let out their urine and the drawing Master crouched beneath with a bucket. He carried a bucket across the field. The bucket billowed in the cold. In a cup, a clod. In a cup, a pour of blood. Red flies followed the drawing Master into the house. A lady sits at an easel. She licks the tip of a brush, the fine white hairs of the brush. She dips the brush in a paint. No, a lady does not. She does not dip. She strokes. She strokes a string. She strokes a string with the tips of her fingers. Her guests cannot hear her brats when they squeal in the nursery. The string makes a fine high sound. The