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. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. She pointed. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. “I have given it up,” she answered. ‘As to that, I am a devil, say the nuns. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat.
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