He was interesting and inconclusive, and the original papers to which he referred her discursive were at best only suggestive. 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. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. Courtlaw,” she remarked. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure.
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