She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. Startled by the cry, as may be supposed, the attention of the whole congregation was drawn towards the quarter whence it proceeded. Better come another morning. 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 turned to Martha as the lad exited by the back door, but her nurse forestalled anything she might have said. " "Lord!—think of having sharks for neighbours? Every morning I'll take a dip into the lagoon. You certainly had to hand it to these Chinks. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. I defy you to explain it away. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. .
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