"A machine, ma'am?" said the lady, with a very female look at Cuckoo.
Cuckoo shook her head.
"What can I do for you?"
"I'd like some work."
"Work!" said the lady, her voice travelling from the contralto to the
soprano register.
"I ain't got nothing to do. I want something; I'll do anything, like she
does," this, with a nod in the direction of a door through which the
pleasant stranger had vanished.
"Miss King; our bookkeeper! You know her?"
"No. I only see her in the street."
"Good morning," came from the lady, and a back confronted Cuckoo.
The pilgrimages were resumed. Cuckoo visited dressmakers, bonnet-shops,
ABC establishments, with no success. Her face, even when unpainted, told
its tale. Nature can write down the truth of a sin better than art.
Cuckoo learnt that fact by her walks. But still she trudged, learning
each day more truths, one of which--a finale to the long sermon, it
seemed--was that there is no army on earth more difficult to enlist in,
under certain circumstances her own, than the army of good working-girls.
The day she thoroughly understood that finale Cuckoo went home and had a
violent row with Mrs. Brigg. A cold scrag of mutton was supposed to be
the bone of contention, but that was only supposition.
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