He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup. 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. Like a river swollen by many currents, it gathered force from the various avenues that poured their streams into it. "Mr. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. ” “Lady Ferringhall! Anna!” he exclaimed. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. It goes to my heart to disappoint you, but this thing must not be. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively.
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