She stared at him.
"Alf Heywood?" she repeated, without meaning.
"Yes, yes; Alf Heywood, as was in Brenton's millinery establishment, top
of Regent Street. Him as give you that green dress. Don't you recall?"
Cuckoo shook her head.
"Green, with white lace on it," he continued, with nervous emphasis.
Suddenly Cuckoo said:
"White; no, it was yellow."
Mr. Heywood was delighted at this evidence of recollection.
"So it was, so it was," he said. "But what I wanted to say was, that I'm
sorry to see you here still."
"Eh?"
"Sorry to see you here. I'm married, you know, turned over a new leaf,
with two children of my own, and come to see the error of my ways. I
hoped as you--"
Cuckoo walked on.
Her dream of despair was not to be broken by Mr. Heywood and his
new-found respectability. Fate shattered it to fragments in very
different fashion. A sudden thrill ran through the crowd, coming from
a distance. People began to pause, to turn their heads, to murmur to
one another, then to press forward in one direction, craning their necks
as if to catch sight of something. The street was almost blocked, and
Cuckoo was entangled in this seething excitement, of which at first she
could not divine the cause.
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