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. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. You see, I—I am a woman worshipper. Her formerly brown hair was dyed a white shade of blonde.
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