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. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank. "I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. The contest was now carried on between Rowland and Darrell.
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