Ed. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. 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. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. " "Take hence this boy, then," rejoined Trenchard; "his looks unman me.
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