Nevertheless, it rustled with a handsome sound, a
melody of wealth, when she had put it on and promenaded about her dingy
bedroom, with Jessie at her heels, pretending to worry it playfully. The
black bodice had some trimming. But it was all black. Cuckoo wished it
had been scarlet, or, at the least, orange--something to catch the eye
and hold it. When she was fully attired, and was staring into her glass,
between two boldly flaring gas-jets, she nearly resolved to break her
promise to Julian. She even went so far as to paint her lips and eyes,
and was charmed with the effect against the black. But then with a sudden
fury she sponged her pale face clean, threw the new feather boa round her
throat, and, without daring to glance again at her funereal image, turned
out the gas, and went into the sitting-room. As usual, her last act was
to ensconse the pensive Jessie in the flannel-lined basket, and to give
her a kiss. To-night, as she did so, she let a tear fall on the little
dog's head. She scarcely knew why she cried. Perhaps the quiet gown, the
lack of paint and powder, the prospect of kind and even respectful
treatment from at least Julian, if not from Valentine, gave to her heart
a vision of some existence in which Piccadilly Circus had no part.
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