“You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. ” She took his hand and smiled upon him. 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 really had not thought about it at all,” Anna answered smiling. Sheppard remained dissolved in tears. ‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do.
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