Them young prigs is all alike. He was tall and straight, and his expression was good. 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. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. " "I'm sorry I can't indulge you," replied her master, a little piqued. See you in Science Class. Very quietly, he added, “Oh Lucia, I’m sorry. You must think it over.
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