And still the fire was about him. She clung
to him with her thin arms.
"That's it," she whispered, in reply to his words.
Julian held her in silence, felt her heart beating, the piteous tenuity
of her little body, the weak grasp of her arms round him. These things
broke upon him one by one with a crescendo of meaning that came like a
great revelation, came to him shod with flame, winged with flame, moving
in flame, warm like flame.
"You starved for me, sold Jessie for me," he whispered. "How I love you!
How I love you!"
And he crushed her close in an embrace that was almost brutal.
The door bell rang. Julian let Cuckoo go.
"He has come for me," he said.
She knew it too, and looked at him with a piteous, greedy questioning.
"I hate him now," he said in answer.
The door of the room opened. They both turned towards it. Valentine
entered.
"I thought I should find you here," he said, stopping near the door. "Are
you better, Julian?"
"Better?"
"Last night you were not yourself."
"I have not been myself for a long time," Julian replied.
"I had not noticed any change."
Julian made no reply. A dogged expression had come into his face. He was
still sitting close to Cuckoo. Now he took her hand in his.
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