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. “Go on!” she commanded. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Though they do, in secret, I believe. ’ ‘Because I have never heard anything so ridiculous,’ Gerald announced. Like stealing.
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