It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. But I waited in vain. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. All we do is for your good. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. “I find the two inseparable.
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