Brigg. Her hands were tied in every direction
except one. She could only dumbly prove that Valentine was wrong; that
her will was not dead, by exercising it to the detriment of her worldly
situation. Doggedly then she put her whole past behind her, despite the
ever-increasing curses of the landlady. She had given up her pilgrimages
in search of honest work. They were too hopeless. She had pawned
everything she could pawn, and sold every trifle that was saleable. Even
Jessie's broad band of yellow satin had been included in a heterogeneous
parcel of odds and ends purchased by a phlegmatic German with eyes like
marbles and the manner of a stone image. Living less and less well, doing
without fires, sitting often in the dark at night to save the expense of
gas, Cuckoo had managed to pay her rent until a week ago. Then money had
failed, and the great earthquake had at length tossed and swallowed the
wretched Mrs. Brigg. The scene had been tropical. Mrs. Brigg was really
moved to the very depths of her being. For days she had been, as it were,
eating and drinking apprehension. Now apprehension choked her. She was
shot up in the air by the cannon of climax. Limbs and mind were in the
extreme of commotion. From her point of view it must be acknowledged that
the situation was unduly exasperating.
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