Mr. John Sheppard. 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. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. You saw him? You have been to Remenham House?’ ‘Remenham House? I wish I’d been only to Remenham House.
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