“Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. It was an uproarious affair, for Rollo now knew that he had been grieviously betrayed: they were trying to kill him in a new way. Sheppard. He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. "Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. A glance sufficed to show the young man how matters stood. I called myself Anna. . A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset. 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. Besides, by the time they were off his hands, old McClintock would be dropping in to have his liver renovated.
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