They pressed round, nameless wearinesses induced
by acts which had made Cuckoo that which she was. And they seemed to
whisper to her: "You cannot fight. You cannot protect--it is all over.
You can only sleep--you can only sleep. Sleep! You are so weary. Sleep,
for life, which has taken everything else from you, has left you that."
Cuckoo's face was white with the story of her life, and with the wonder
of her recent self-denial, and with the memory of her martyrdom when the
little old man of the many dogs shuffled to the door, bearing from her
the friend of her loneliness. Her eyes were hollow and desolate. It
seemed that she gave heed to the voices and listened to the beautiful
legend of the magic and the holiness of sleep. And as she seemed to
give heed, the devil of the egoism of Valentine rose again before the
doctor, sharply outlined and distinct, and smiled with the triumph of
the egoism--that modern vampire--of all the world, terrifically
unconquerable. Would Cuckoo sleep? The doctor debated this question
silently and with an agony of anxiety. He felt as if the fate of worlds
hung upon it, and the destinies of kings.
Would she sleep?
The obstinate spirit stood by her always, and the song of Valentine was a
procession of triumph in the night.
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