Wood hadn't struck me. Sir John once more looked around him. "Nobody has so much cause for complaint as me," growled Austin. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. To preserve herself, however, from destitution, or what she considered worse, she wedded a journeyman carpenter, named Sheppard. 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 closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers.
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