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. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. " "Not in the least," replied Shotbolt, creeping beneath the table; "there's my staff. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. If she has no children, she goes on loving her husband; but he is no longer a man but a child. ” Courtlaw was pale and dishevelled.
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