But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid 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. ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. ” “Is she the one who made you into a vampire?” “Yes. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station.
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