She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. 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 the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her. “I know. "Done!" cried Shotbolt. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. By Jasus! he's about to spake to us. .
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