" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. “Hey sis!” He cried drunkenly. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. Do you know that he is very much in love with you?” Anna smiled. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess. 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. " "Don't worry about that. “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. ’ ‘You, perhaps?’ she flung at him furiously, stepping out from behind the desk. Not for me. I’d rather not go,” she added. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher.
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