Julian looked
embarrassed and pained, almost guilty, too. He put out his hand and tried
to take Cuckoo's. But she drew hers away and went on crying. She spoke
again with vehemence.
"I told you what I wanted you to be; yes, I did," she exclaimed. "Yes,
I told you. You said you only come here to talk to me."
"It was true."
"No; it wasn't. You're just like all the others. And I did so want to
have a pal. I've never had one."
With the words the sense of her desolation seemed to strike her with
stunning force. She leaned her head against the back of the chair, and
cried bitterly, catching at the horsehair with violent hands, as if she
longed to hurt something, to revenge her loss even upon an object without
power of feeling. Julian sprang up and went over to the window. He looked
out onto the road and watched the people moving by in the fitful sunshine
beyond the dirty railings. That day, he, too, was in a tumult. He felt
like a monk who had suddenly thrown off his habit, broken his vows, and
come forth into the world. The cell and the cloister were left behind,
were things to be forgotten, with the grating of the confessional and the
dim routine of service and of asceticism. He had been borne on by the
wave of a brilliant, a violent hour, away from them.
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