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. “He was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. He kept his keen eyes steadily fixed on Thames, as if awaiting to be addressed. There is a small yewtree west of the church. ‘Jacques? You have done it? He is alive?’ ‘Oh, he’s alive, all right,’ confirmed the sergeant, putting the petrified Pottiswick—stockstill and staring in horror at the dagger—firmly out of his way and taking his place before Melusine. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death.
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