Jessie was embodied money, an embodied small sum of money.
Long ago Cuckoo had said to Julian with pride:
"She's a show-dog. I wouldn't part with her for nuts."
Now she remembered those words, and knew, could not help knowing, that a
show-dog was worth more than nuts. At that moment she wished Jessie were
worthless. Then the sting would be drawn from her horrible thought.
Meanwhile Jessie slept calmly on, warm and cosey.
Cuckoo was cold and trembling. She knew that she was on the verge of
starvation. The doctor had said that one day she could help Julian, only
she. So she must not starve. Love alone would not let her do that.
Between her and starvation lay Jessie, curved in sleep, unconscious that
her small future was being debated with tears and with horror.
Long ago the little dog had entered Cuckoo's heart to be cherished
there. Many wretched London women own such a little dog, to whom they
cling with a passion such as more fortunate women lavish upon their
children. A great many subtleties combine to elevate companions with
tails to the best thrones the poor, the wicked, and the deserted can
give them. A dog has such a rich nature to give to the woman who is poor,
so much innocence at hand for the woman who is wicked, such completeness
of attachment ready for the woman who is lonely.
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