One night, when she was thus sunk and swallowed up in the maw of
miserable inward contemplation, a young man, who was walking by, observed
her. He was very young and eager, fresh from Cambridge, ardent after the
mysteries and the subtleties of life, as is the fashion of clever modern
youth. The sight of this painted girl leaning, motionless as some doll or
puppet, against the iron shutters of the vacant house, her head drooped,
and her hands, as if the strings to manipulate her had fallen loose from
the grasp that guided them, caught and eventually fascinated him. It was
a late hour of night. He passed on and returned, shooting each time a
devouring, analytical glance upon Cuckoo. Again he came back, walking a
little nearer to the houses. His heart beat quicker as he approached the
puppet. Its complete immobility was almost appalling, and each time he
came within view of it he examined it violently to see if a limb was
displaced. No; one might almost suppose that it was the body of some one
struck dead so suddenly against the shop that she had not had time to
fall, and so remained leaning thus. With shorter and shorter revolutions,
like a dog working itself up to approach some motionless but strange
object, the youth went by Cuckoo, hesitating more and more each time he
came in front of her with strange feelings of one being vaguely criminal.
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