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It was enough that Spurlock had been taken aboard The Tigress. 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. "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. She was nestled under his bedspread. “She told you that?” “Yes. ” “We should go back. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. ‘Now then, Gerald, out with it. His skill has not been tried.
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