She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. “Why?” “I still love you. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. 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. ” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ann Veronica, by H. Where's the dining room? And, say, can I have some eggs? This jam-tea breakfast gets my goat. She breathed deeply.
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