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 brother, 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 hearts are more than coronets.”
She said, and wondering looked at me:
„It is the dead unhappy night, and I must
hurry home to tea.”