“Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. He cherished her. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. And so Winifred understood him. 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.
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