“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. She had need of a devoted cavalier and Jack had proved eminently valuable. 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. I was mean to him. He smiled. I'll put you aboard The Tigress to-morrow after sundown. Maggot. On this I am resolved.
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