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. That is very bad indeed. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. "I am innocent. Give up your lonely hours of work here. She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. I wish they would just get it over with. For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy world.
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