Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. 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 the offences I have committed are venial in comparison with what I should commit were I to wed your father. He drew a little sigh of relief.
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