It is the bottom of the cup, where all the dregs appear to settle. 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. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. Leave the room! leave the house, Sir! and enter it again at your peril. “Who’s your violin teacher?” He asked.
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