Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. Such ambitions as he had were stereotyped and material. But she felt his lax figure become rigid. “I mean to,” she replied. And then she could see nothing at all for his lips founds 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. I give myself to you. She could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure.
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