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. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. ‘But I was not there. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. Every movable mirror had been placed here, to discourage vanity, and since no whitewash covered the brocaded purple wallpaper, its pervasive hue gave an added sense of heaviness to the crowded chamber. . “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. So soft.
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