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. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork.
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