His employer retreated into the further apartment, leaving the door ajar. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. 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. "Good gracious! so I do," exclaimed his amiable consort. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. Parbleu, but she was a fool. The boy was bright and inquisitive as he was subtle. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being.
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