" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. I really am enjoying it. I don’t play anything. 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. While he was thus musing, two horsemen rode past him; and, proceeding to a little distance, stopped likewise. "No matter," replied Sheppard. Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas.
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