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 feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. And the less “anything” happened the better. ” “Perhaps,” he said, “you had better let me have your key, and I will go up and explore. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven.
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