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 could not see any relief from this anxiety except repayment, and repayment seemed impossible. She remained for a few moments standing as though listening to his retreating footsteps. Tell me, what are these bananas and nuts for?” “Dessert. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy.
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