Had Jessie been with her still,
she could have stayed within doors. The little dog's faint and regular
breathing, her occasional rustling movements, had made just enough music
to keep Cuckoo still faintly singing even when her heart was saddest. Now
her room and her life were empty of all song, and Jessie's untenanted
basket--in which the red flannel seemed to Cuckoo like blood--was a
spectre and a vision of hell.
So, on this night, Cuckoo put on her hat and jacket. She meant to go out,
to walk anywhere, just to move, to be in the open air. As she went into
the passage she ran against Mrs. Brigg. The gas-jet was alight, and the
landlady could see how she was dressed. Suddenly Mrs. Brigg fell on
Cuckoo and began slobbering her with kisses.
The old wretch actually began to whimper. She had been sore tried, and
must have had a fragment of affection for Cuckoo somewhere about her
nature. For she did not want to part with her, and the tears she now let
fall were prompted not only by a prospect of money coming in to her, but
also of pleasure in the thought that Cuckoo had not entirely gone to the
bad. She wept like the mother who sees her child return from its evil
way.
Cuckoo thrust her away without a word, violently.
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