In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. "You are out betimes this morning, Mr. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open. It doesn’t mean that these men deserve to die for whatever they have done, John. This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was stretched forth to save him. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. 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. She forced herself not to think of John.
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