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. Then I think I remarked that science was disgracefully under-endowed, and confessed I’d had to take to more profitable courses. She snapped out of her blissful state and looked at him squarely in the eyes. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. "Your health, Kneebone.
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