It is so ridiculous. 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. But this plan (probably from its danger) was instantly abandoned; not, however, before her momentary hesitation had been taken advantage of by her pursuers, who, redoubling their efforts at this juncture, materially lessened the distance between them. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother.
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