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. Anna was singing as she used to sing. Spurlock looked up. "From Lady Trafford's, where I took the box. “Yes. This roof is still open to you. "Owen, Owen," pursued Mrs. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. It did not shock her; it amazed her, interested her beyond measure.
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