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. “I had no idea that it was so abominably late. Will you let your servant call me a hansom,” she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side. You must always shave and part your hair straight. But seriously ——” “Well seriously?” “Isn’t it your own fault a little? Why do you not tell me your address, and allow me to call upon you. She has been a dear. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. "You know this is a pet project. It’s—it’s a social difference. The door opened, and a slightly overweight pretty blonde, an older, wiser version of Michelle, came into view.
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