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 am not, by Heaven!" replied Sheppard, firmly. But what would her aunt think of Teddy’s recent off-hand suggestion of marriage? What would she think of the Widgett conversation? Suppose she was to tell her aunt quietly but firmly about the parasitic males of degraded crustacea. “Mere sensuality. She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. The G. Gay," he added, turning to the poet. “Hand me the Jergens lotion, will you? How’d it go with John?” She asked.
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