How could she make Julian love her? What could she do? And
all the time, as she asked herself passionately that question, the
hours were gliding by towards the evening refrain of her life. Cuckoo
began to consider this evening refrain as she had never considered it
before, as it might affect another if he loved her. If she made Julian
love her, if she succeeded in this attempt that seemed as if it must
be impossible, what of her evening refrain then? And what would be the
conclusion of such a love? She could not tell; she could only wonder.
The strange thing about the lady of the feathers, and about many of her
kind, was, that she never dreamed of such a thing as owing a duty to
herself, to her own body, her own soul, or nature. Cuckoo knew not the
meaning of self-respect. Had you told her that her body was a temple--not
of the Holy Ghost, but of a wonderful, exquisite thing called womanhood,
and for that reason should not be defiled, she would have stared at you
under drawn eyebrows, like a fierce boy, and wondered what in heaven or
earth you were talking jargon about. To get at her sympathy you must talk
to her of duty to another; and if she had a soft feeling for that other,
then she understood you, and then alone.
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