Other girls knew
but she had never had any one who could tell her. Perhaps she would
make girl friends now who would show her.
But, after all, she did not care. She was herself. People who did
not like her could leave her--yes they could, and she would not stir
a finger to fetch them back.
Then, deep down in her soul, she knew that she wanted success, a
magnificent life, a great future. Nay more, she expected it. She had
force and strength, and she would compel life to give her what she
wanted. She laughed at herself in the glass. She was happy, almost
triumphant, and for no reason at all.
She went to her windows and opened them; there came up to her the
tramping progress of the motor-omnibuses. They advanced, like
elephants charging down a jungle, nearer, nearer, nearer. Before the
tramp of one had passed another was advancing, and then upon that
another--ceaselessly, advancing and retreating.
In her nightdress she leaned out of the window, poised, as it seemed
to her, above a swaying carpet of lights.
Life seemed to hold every promise in store for her.
She crossed to her bed, drew the clothes about her and, forgetting
her supper, forgetting all that had happened to her, her journey,
her fainting, the young man, Edward the parrot, she fell into a
slumber as deep, as secure, as death itself.
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