"Something worse, I fear," Wood replied. She caught the fact that it was something more than strong drink that laid you out. 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 never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. The Supper at Mr. Yet through these talks, these meetings and conferences, these movements and efforts, Ann Veronica, for all that she went with her friend, and at times applauded with her enthusiastically, yet went nevertheless with eyes that grew more and more puzzled, and fine eyebrows more and more disposed to knit. ‘No. ‘Ah, the tragedy. So he's come around, then? That's fine. I wanted to have something to give up. How can you say such things? You’re too young to be married, and realize this: you’re not ready. “It seems to me it comes to earning one’s living in the long run,” said Ann Veronica, coloring faintly. ‘Espéce de diable,’ she screamed.
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