He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. The shouts of indignation—the frightful yells now raised baffle description. The chance it is the same for both. 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. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. "Thank you, sir," said Spurlock, holding out his hand. “It may be her salvation.
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