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. "So my father thought," replied Winifred; "and he therefore instantly fired upon him. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. " "I don't know," said McClintock. Don’t you know I disinherited the rogue?’ ‘This we knew, milor’,’ said Valade. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage.
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