\" Michelle agreed, staring into the clouds. "I am surprised we have received no summons for attendance to-day," he remarked; "perhaps the other robber may be secured. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. She had often wondered if Hoddy would ever go back to it. 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. There were no mourners. No matter. She put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face. By instinct. There is a place—This isn’t the place.
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