By a sort of instinct. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. "So it is," the doctor agreed. I could be presented as Meysey Hill. 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. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. ‘I can see why you lost your place, young Kimble.
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