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Her anger died and she eyed him. Wood,—"he'll never mend. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel. She could not say a word, much less move. 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.
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