5. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone. 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. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved.
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