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Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. “For me there is no second turn.
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