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. "For my part, it's only what I expected of him," observed Mrs. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. .
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