She was fearful, and dreaded darkness, or even twilight. The
pulse of London beat round her while she stretched herself on the hard
sofa, let down her touzled yellow hair, and frowned slowly as the
unlearned do when they know that they want to meditate.
Now and then she rose suddenly on her elbow, half turned her head towards
the window and listened. She had thought she heard a step on the pavement
pause, and the cry of the little iron gate. Then, reassured, she leaned
back once more. She had taken off her boots, and her feet, in black
stockings gone a little white at the toes, were tilted up on the shoulder
of the sofa. She fixed her eyes mechanically upon them while she began,
all-confusedly, and with the blurred vagueness of the illiterate, to plan
out a campaign. Not that she said that word to herself; she did not know
its meaning. All that she knew was, that she wanted to put her back
against the wall, or get into an angle, like a cornered animal, and use
her teeth and claws against Valentine, that menacing figure with an
angel's face. And what disgusted and drove Cuckoo almost mad as she
lay there in the crude gaslight was the abominable fact that she was
desperately afraid of Valentine. There was something about him which
filled her not only with intense horror, but with something worse than
horror,--intense fear.
Pages:
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411