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. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. "Sir Rowland is your uncle—he will be your guardian—he will protect you. Lose no time. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “Has he accused any one yet?” “Not yet,” he answered. ’ A twinkle crept into Mrs Sindlesham’s eye.
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