The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. “Well?” she said. 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. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. I should as soon think of trusting a woman.
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