It might mean that Julian
was ill, in danger--she knew not what. But at least it broke through the
appalling inaction, the dreary stagnation, of her days. The lady of the
feathers had fought indeed, of late, that worst enemy, mental despair,
bred of grim patience at last grown weary. That was not the battle she
had been inspired to expect, to prepare for. The doctor's telegram at
least swept the unforeseen foe from the field, and seemed to set the real
enemy full in view.
"There ain't any answer," the lady of the feathers said to Mrs. Brigg,
who waited in an attitude expressive of greedy curiosity.
"Which of 'em is it?" demanded that functionary.
"Shan't tell you," Cuckoo hissed at her.
The filthy groove in which the landlady's mind forever ran began to rouse
her to an intense animosity.
"Well, it's all one to me so long as I'm paid regular," muttered Mrs.
Brigg, with a swing of her dusty skirts and a toss of her grey head,
governed by pomade, since it was a Saturday. Mrs. Brigg must once have
held Christian principles, as she always prepared the ground for certain
Sabbath curls the day before.
Cuckoo ran to dress herself. It was seldom indeed that she stirred out
in the morning, so seldom that that alone was an experience.
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