On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. The doctor would naturally offer a hundred objections; he might seriously interfere; so he must be forestalled. 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. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way.
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