The shadow on fire snatched her out of her sleep, tossed
her in air, spoke to her with a voice that thrilled her to quick barking
excitement, played with her till the little dog's flux of emotions
threatened to consummate in a canine apoplexy, and Mrs. Brigg battered at
the door with a shrill, "Keep that beast quiet, can't yer?" All this was
Cuckoo fighting; battle in the bedclothes, battle with soap and water,
curling-pins, corset, shoes. Each little act was performed with an energy
it did not demand. The sponge was squeezed dry like a live thing being
strangled; the toothbrush played as Maxim guns on an enemy; buttons went
into button-holes with a manner of ramrods going into muskets; hooks met
eyes as one army meets another. Battle in all that morning's common
tasks, setting them high, dressing them with chivalry and strong
endeavour. Cuckoo went into her sitting-room swiftly, with glowing cheeks
and flaming eyes, as one ardently expectant. And then--? Mrs. Brigg had
lit the fire, but it had spluttered out into a mass of blackened, ghostly
paper and skeleton sticks. A little more battle in the relighting of it.
But then--the blank day of the girl of the streets. Cuckoo sat down,
watched the growing fire, and wondered what she had expected.
Pages:
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576