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. Perhaps the Parisian atmosphere had affected him. “What did it matter?” she cried. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. Wood, contemptuously, "he'll never mend till he comes to Tyburn. ’ ‘How can you possibly enquire for her?’ demanded Hilary acidly. And then she fell into a musing about Capes. "Out of the twelve hundred subjects I've tucked up, I may safely place half to his account.
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