‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. “I am very much obliged for the tea,” she said. 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. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. She emerged with a white face and wide-open eyes upon a little, red-lit landing. She awoke at 11:12 am, her foster sister snoring in the bed across the room. Nor did he content himself with declaring his guiltlessness of the crime imputed to him, but began in his turn to menace his captor and accuser, loading the latter with the bitterest upbraidings.
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