She turned to Lucilla, a plea in her face. The hansom drove off. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. 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. A sinister thought edged in. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. It isn't your duty. "How have you managed to communicate with him?" Abraham, who had listened attentively to the foregoing conversation,—not a word of which escaped him,—now drew in his breath, and brought his ear closer to the boards. " "Constance alive? Impossible!" ejaculated Trenchard.
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