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. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. It is different. The proa bore away to the northwest out of which it had come. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. Wood entered the room, followed by Thames. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Kneebone, what with flirting with Mrs. Sheppard.
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