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Although Cuckoo Knew Well That Julian Carried out His Intention Of Going
Home After He Left Her In piccadilly, The Fact Of His Being there, Of His
Making one Of That Crowd, That Slowly-Moving crowd, Troubled her.
Valentine And Julian Had Argued the Question Of Her Real Feeling about
The Matter. Cuckoo Did Not Argue It. She Never Deliberately Thought To
Herself, "I Feel This Or That. Why Do I Feel It?" She Knew As Much About
Astronomy As Introspection, And That Was Simply Nothing at All. Instead
Of Diving into The Depths Of Her Mind And Laboriously Tracing every
Labelled and Tabulated subtlety To Its Source, She Sat In the Squalid
Marylebone Road Sitting-Room, With The Folding doors Open Into The
Bedroom To Temper The Heat Of Summer With Draughts From The Frigid Zone
Of The Back Area, And Babbled her Sensations To Jessie, Who Riggled in
Response To Every Passing shadow That Stole Across The Heart Of Her
Mistress.
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