"Mr. 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. But it must have been something that could show her to be Mary’s daughter. I have the right also to throw you out. I am not going to be a chorus girl, or even a super. ’ No Latin? And no guns or daggers, naturally. They ought to put a lamp. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically.
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