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.”

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