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 suppose I should let go if I had. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. Get the pole out of your ass. "I suppose it didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's flesh and blood?" asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with pain. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. But never had the hand touched her with a father's caress; never had he taken her into his arms; never had he kissed her. Stanley coughed and faced toward the house.
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