On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. It was years before your time. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another. 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. “But we satisfy one another. Washed in light from the vestry window, she held her ground, all thought at bay, bar the steel determination long ago instilled in her by her unconventional tutor. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. "Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr.
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