She supposed that he, like all others, laughed at her pretensions to
gravity, swept her exhibition of real and honest emotion away from his
memory with a sneer, considered her despair over another's ruin a vile
travesty, a grinning absurdity and trick. Never had Cuckoo felt more
lonely than in these days, though a vast loneliness is the constant
companion of her large sisterhood. Even Jessie failed to comfort her,
and she could find little courage within herself. And yet there were
moments when the vigour that had led her once to defy Valentine, when
the fire that had sprung up in her, as a flame may burst forth in a
swamp, seemed to be near to her again. She felt a new possibility within
her, stirring, striving. It was at such moments that she longed to see
the doctor, and could have cursed him for not coming to her. For at
such moments she seemed only waiting for a touch of sympathy, a word of
encouragement, to perform some great action, some momentous deed. But the
touch, the word, were lacking, and her life and experience of constant
and monotonous degradation dulled the impulse, stifled the enthusiasm
that she could not understand. And she fell again to brooding, and to
an ignorant and vague consciousness of impotence.
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