It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. 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. He had looked at it before without comprehension. She taught me how to crochet and cross stitch.
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