Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. Think, ma’am. She packed her things, then ran a mile to Julian’s apartment. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. “Shit happens, John. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. But, when the sound of the carriage-wheels died away, and he felt that she was actually gone, his resolution failed him, and he rang the bell violently. 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 went next day to the schools, and her world seemed all made of happiness just worked up roughly into shapes and occasions and duties. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly.
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