"The glass never sinks in that way, d'ye see, without a hurricane follerin', I've knowed it often do so in the West Injees. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. 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. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband? His luck was in.
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