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. You get the idea. " "Never let the unknown edge in upon your courage. Gold-handled, too. “I am developing ailments,” she said, meeting his questioning eyes. Will you go? You'll be paid handsomely for your trouble. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch.
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