Of course she had often heard sailors hammering out their ditties. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. 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. The boat was set free, and the men resumed their seats. “But for you Dad would never have let me marry Lescelles.
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