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. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion. "I thought we were going to have some music," she said. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. One of her duties, after she had been taught to read, had been to read aloud after breakfast and before going to bed. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth.
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