There is 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. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. ‘All so long ago and my memory ain’t what it was. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house.
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