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. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. "I read those stories. Nothing is of any concern of ours except the discovery of the man’s identity. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. Kneebone,—pray go!" implored Winifred.
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