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 was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. “That sounds quite absurd,” she answered. Between herself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler God could give—love. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. What’s the name of the happy man?” Gwen owned to “Fortescue.
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