Cuckoo flushed and trembled; this divine pity outpainted her rouge, and
shook that body which had so often betrayed itself to destroyers. This
divine pity gave to her, who had lost all, the power to find freedom for
another soul that lay in bondage.
The doctor gazed for an instant at the boy and girl, and was deeply
moved. His lips breathed a word that was a prayer, for Julian, for the
lady of the feathers.
Then he got up.
"I have to go," he said.
Julian said nothing; Cuckoo flushed again, and accompanied the doctor to
the hall door. When she had opened it, and they looked out, it was very
cold, but the fog had lifted, and was floating away to reveal a sky full
of stars, which always seem to shine more brightly upon frost. The doctor
took the girl's hand.
"I see you in clear weather," he said.
"You don't--you don't think as he'll--as I'll--" stammered Cuckoo,
glancing awkwardly towards the lighted doorway of the little
sitting-room, and then at the doctor. The church clock striking
7:30 pointed the application of the hesitating murmur. It was
unconventionally late for an afternoon call.
"It'll be all right, you know that?" said the lady of the feathers.
"Yes, I know that," he answered.
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