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. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. "Ha! say you so? You must be looked to. ” The idea struck him as novel. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. I love everything to-day, and all of you, but I love this, this—this innocence upon us most of all. “Idiots!” she said, when she heard this pandemonium, and with particular reference to this young lady with the throaty contralto next door. Wood the best of wives. I wouldn't touch the stuff for all the pearls in India.
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