Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. "Gracious Heavens! this is more wonderful than all the rest," cried the carpenter, rubbing his eyes. 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. John picked it up and put it in her hands. Run along while I rig up and get the part in my hair straight. His face turned a dark crimson. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am.
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