She often found herself absorbed by watching the tall grass undulate from the cave’s central doorway as solitary hunters prowled for buffalo and stag on the plain. 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 don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. ” Anna hesitated, and then held out the letter. "A storm!" exclaimed the landlord. ” The talk became more and more inconclusive and exhausting. They litter up the room.
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