But Cuckoo would not notice
the little dog. She stared at the fire and looked so old, and almost
intellectual. But there was nobody to see her. What a long, empty day it
had been, this day for which she had risen eagerly as to a day of battle!
What a long, empty day, and no deed done in it. And now the hour of the
evening refrain was come. Cuckoo had wanted this day to be a special day,
for it was the first of those new days which were to come after the
doctor's word of hope. And nothing had happened in it. Nobody had come.
The doctor was with his patients. Julian was--ah, surely--with Valentine.
And she, Cuckoo, this poor, pale girl, who wanted to fight and to do
battle, was alone. And she had been so eager in the morning. And now the
night was falling and she had not struck a blow. The hour chimed. It was
the hour of the evening refrain.
Suddenly Cuckoo got up. She went over to the window and pulled down the
blind so sharply that she nearly broke it. She struck a match violently
and lit the gas. She ran into the bedroom, caught her hat, which lay
ready for service on the top of the chest of drawers, and cast it with
a crash into a cardboard box, jamming the lid down on it. She seized her
jacket, which lay on the bed, and strung it up on a hook, as if she were
hanging a criminal.
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