But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. 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. Her heavy pistol came up again, although she did not rise. She was nearly dead. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. Soon the trunk, portmanteau and hat box were ready. ” “That’s a question of detail,” said Ann Veronica.
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