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. “Tut, tut!” he said. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. "Write as follows," continued Jack. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. The Times slipped from his fingers. "If the best nag ever foaled were to throw me in this unlucky spot, I'd blow his brains out. Sheppard.
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