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. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that. “Rummy lot we are!” said Roddy. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult.
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