⁠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."