The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. In Darrell's open features, frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He loved to sneak up and stand ten feet or so behind you and just. The noise was raucous. 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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