What was the street to Cuckoo
now, or Cuckoo to the street? Once it had at least been much, almost
everything, to her. And she had been perhaps as much to it as one of the
paving-stones on which the feet of its travellers trod. Now things were
changed. The human wolf was in the snow still, but it no longer feared
starvation. Rather did it live in starvation with a fervour that was
untouched by anything animal.
Cuckoo walked on.
The crowd flowed up and down, in two opposed and gliding streams. The
warm heaviness of this premature air of spring had brought many people
out, and had even induced some of the women to assume costumes of
mid-summer. There were great white hats floating on the stream, like
swans. Bright and light coloured dresses touched the black gown of Cuckoo
as with fingers of contempt. She did not see them. Many women who knew
her by sight murmured to each other their surprise at her reappearance.
One, a huge negress in orange cotton, ejaculated a loud and guttural:
"My sakes!"
Unheeding, Cuckoo walked on.
A few of the men looked at her. More especially did those observe her who
love vice that is quiet, sedate, demure, and unobtrusive. To these her
pale, unpainted cheeks, her unconscious demeanour, her downcast eyes,
and severely plain black dress and hat appealed with emphasis.
Pages:
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724