“Eight, Cavendish Square. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. It will be his interest to do so. " But the caution came too late. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. 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.
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