Miss Mary and me, and Martha too sometimes. “You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. No offence, I hope. 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. "It is important not to slay him. “Sufficient unto me is the change thereof,” he said, with all the effect of an epigram. ‘We was of an age, you see, miss. I know all about it. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity.
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