“You will pardon me, sir,” he said in a subdued tone, “but I think that you have forgotten to look at your engagement book. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. Petrified and speechless, he turned an imploring look at Wild, who was himself filled with astonishment at the pile of rubbish lying before him. They're apt to be surly to strangers, but it soon wears off. 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.
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