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. “I must live, you know. Bird,—who was rushing up stairs, alarmed by Mr. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. Decidedly this was imbecile. Still, my tutor was a highly educated scholar—my father. She always dawdled, so it was easy.
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