’ Still no response. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. 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. I defy you to explain it away. "Dead!" echoed the boy. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream.
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