She pulled him down by his lapels and arched her head readily towards his neck. But it is my fault. Jackson. 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. His mind seemed to be a remarkably full one; his knowledge of detailed reality came in just where her own mind was most weakly equipped.
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