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. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. Opals. She accomplished it with the aid of the young fellow’s hand, and stepped down into the road, glancing up at the house as she did so.
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