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. She felt her heartbeat accelerate until it was pounding her chest. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. It is magnificent indeed. She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees.
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