THIS, this glissade, would be damned scoundrelism. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher. 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. She turned her head to each side. Out of these he selected a faded parchment and restored the rest to safety.
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