She
shut it, locked it almost angrily, and never, never looked into it.
Julian was to be her friend of leisure, never associated in any way with
her tragic hours. All other men were the same, stamped with a similar
hall-mark. He only was unstamped and was beautiful.
On this evening of summer, Cuckoo, as usual, joined the flight of the
bats with a tired wing. The heat tried her. Her cheeks were white as
ivory under their cloud of rouge. Her mouth was more plaintive even than
usual, and her heart felt dull and heavy. As she got out of the omnibus
at the Circus one of her ankles turned, and she gave an awkward jump that
set all the feathers on her hat in commotion, and made the newspaper boys
laugh at her scornfully. They knew her by sight, and joked her every
evening when she arrived. At first--that was a long while ago--she had
resented their remarks, still more their shrewd unboyish questions, and
had answered them with angry bitterness. But--well, that was a long while
ago. Now she simply recovered her footing, paused a moment on the
kerbstone to arrange her dress, and then drifted away into the crowd
slowly, without even glancing at her nightly critics, who were aware of
a new bow on her gown, recognized with imperturbable _sang-froid_ the
change in a trimming or the alteration of a waist-belt.
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