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. On this fresh outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare himself to meet his fate. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. \"Well, to tell you the truth, John Diedermayer. After quarter of an hour, she followed.
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