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. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. " "I see," remarked Kneebone. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him.
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