He could not kiss Ruth. 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. The true creative mind is always returning to battle; defeats are only temporary setbacks. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. Mrs. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. Wood turned over to obtain a more comfortable position.
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