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You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. . 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. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. " "Don't say so," cried Mrs.
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