” “You came—here!” he repeated, vaguely. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Here and there, a building might be seen with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds. “Oh no, you’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” “No Julian. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh. They had been married for well over one hundred years. So he shut his eyes. 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.
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