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 sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. The proceedings of this faction were narrowly watched by a vigilant and sagacious administration. But a woman’s life is all chance. “Mr. Ann Veronica’s tense nerves started, and she stood still with her eyes upon him, wondering what it might be that impended. But in this posture he fared worse than ever. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. “What happened then?” Michelle asked fearfully. Her mind left her.
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