” She took the pocket-book and looked up at him with a little impulsive movement. 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. . This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek. ‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French. “The Widgetts,” she said.
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