This year—I’ve got it badly. 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. Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again.
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