She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. It’s all very fine and all that, Vee, this freedom, but it isn’t going to work. I’m sorry I ruined dinner. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. 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. ‘Parbleu, but I find that this is excessively clever, this passage.
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