"Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. Her eyes flashed. A deadlock. I believe so because the 220 stories say his head was cut off by a tribe of witches and yet it still remained alive for many years after his decapitation. 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. To die intestate was unforgiveably irresponsible.
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