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. Only I’m so incensed with that crazy fool Gerald that—oh, well, never mind. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. An avid reader in many genres, I love to share books that have given me much pleasure.
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