She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. She rose at once with a little exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure. 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. She laughed a little contemptuously. " "Ah, yes; that's all very well. ‘You’re not going to kill me this time. ” “I will think of it,” she repeated.
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