“Very sincerely yours, “ANN VERONICA STANLEY. " When Spurlock had finished the tale, touched here and there by his own imagination, McClintock made a negative sign. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. She fought the inclination for a while, then surrendered. 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, he might hear things. " "Six weeks!" exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone.
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