Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world. "Dreamed!" echoed the knight, with a ghastly smile. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. 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. "Leave me to my fate," rejoined Jack. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. "Do better in future. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. But I’m generously ignorant of gems.
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