Mr. She entered the last room, his bedroom. ‘You must think me a fool, mademoiselle. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. 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. “Here we are, living in the same suburb,” he began. He seized a tray, squatted on the floor, and imitated the tom-tom. She decided to leave after Prom.
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