She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. And before Kneebone could draw his sword, he felled him to the ground with the iron bar. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. 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. ” The topic of his invalid wife bored him, and he turned at once to Ann Veronica. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now.
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