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. Her eyes quizzed the major. Surely she could ignore him. Lucy auditioned on a borrowed violin. He had the air of a man who has said too much. Remember that. ” She looked into her glass. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. He blushed furiously; it was not what he had expected to hear. "Been to those places?" "No. Lucy was silent. . Her whole conduct and tone had been modest and ladylike.
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