The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. They would suffer amazing hardships to hunt the snow-leopard; but in the Temple of Five Hundred Gods they would not take the trouble to ask the name of one! But this girl, she was alone. She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. Old Kesterton, choleric-looking individual nearly opposite, will curse the cooking till he’s black in the face, but he never misses a dinner.
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