Tragic it must always be, for a peculiar
sorrow walks with it; but when it is obstinate, and springs from the mule
in a human being, the tragedy has a lustre, a colour of its own. The lady
of the feathers was forever obstinate. She had been obstinate in vice,
she was now obstinate in virtue. In the old days Julian had said to her,
"Take some of my money and let the streets alone--even for one night."
She had refused. Now Doctor Levillier had said to her, "Prove your will.
Lean on it. Do something for Julian." She could only do this one thing.
She could only leave the street! With frowning, staring obstinacy she
left it. There was always something pathetically blind about Cuckoo's
proceedings. She was not lucid. But once she had grasped an idea she was
like the limpet on the rock. So now she sat at home. Out of her earnings
she had managed to save a very little money. One or two men had made her
small presents from time to time. For a little while she could exist. As
she sat alone on those strange new evenings she did much mental
arithmetic, calculating how long, with these reduced expenses, which
brought Mrs. Brigg's so low, she could live without earning. Sad sums
were these, whether rightly or wrongly worked out.
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