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There was a little murmur of consternation from the waiting crowd, and the florid young woman showed signs of temper, to which Mr. 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 surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. Steps to aid the descent, which was too steep to be safe without them, led to, a door on the opposite side. It was the girl.

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