’ Upon which, she darted through the library door, galvanising both the sergeant and his two militiamen into action. 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. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. . Leave the room! leave the house, Sir! and enter it again at your peril. Nasty, damp passages. A day will come when you will thank me. " "Oh, I see. In seconds, they faced each other before the altar. " "Not if it will hurt her. She stared at him. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “I wonder what you could do?” he said.
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