She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. 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. “A man like that taints a girl by looking at her, by his mere conversation. But, when? When do they go?’ ‘Today, miss. With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. "But you've done well to trust me.
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