To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. 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. She’s as stubborn as the proverbial mule, and—’ with a sigh that felt wrenched out of him ‘—utterly captivating. ” She said and began to pace the hard dirt. . . To these she added the wine and spirits directed, and when all was arranged looked inquisitively at her master. It was the bitterest moment of her life. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. ‘And if it is true that you love me, I do not know why it is that you do not kiss me again at once. "But I agree with Hogarth, that he is precisely the person to do what he has done. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth.
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