"Your master wants a few table-spoons, child," said Mrs. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. ‘Merci,’ Melusine said, and smiled. He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. That is so awful. She saw his face change, how he regretted. 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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