She would never forget the agony of that first meal in the great dining room. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris. "Enough," said the widow, gratefully. So am I. “John,” she declared, “I must eat or die. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. 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.
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