While I am talking about your friends, I feel—I think you ought to know how I look at it. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. She was the consummate mother, even when extremely tired, she missed nothing. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. 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. Instantly I knew that I was going to run away that night before he returned from the neighbouring island.
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