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. “You know, my mom caught me smoking once with Missy. But Sheppard answered for him. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. Saint Giles's Round-house XIII. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer.
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