The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. If the boy had done anything wrong back there in the States, his would be the brand of conscience to pay him out in full. 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. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune.
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