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 why this part of the plan now seemed to her quite unattractive was a question she did not care to examine too closely. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. " "Jack's mother?" exclaimed the young man. Winifred screamed. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance.
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