It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. "Are you not content with the crimes you have committed, —but you must carry your villany to this point. ’ ‘And me,’ came the guttural response, ‘I will certainly murder you the very next time I am compelled to see your face. 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 shouldn’t have waited,” she said.
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