But always this new phase in life which civilization called convention threw up barrier after barrier. It is as if my lips had been sealed about them. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. 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. “She appears to be very popular here,” she remarked.
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