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. I—well, I lost my temper. It also told you how to write on all occasions, how to take out a patent, how to doctor a horse, and who Achates was. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. Gerald kicked the panelled wall in frustration. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand.
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