She sat herself upon the bed. She fled. The original passage, Martha had told her, had led only from an upstairs room to one downstairs. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. “So long as I am your father, so long as your life is entrusted to my care, I feel bound by every obligation to use my authority to check this odd disposition of yours toward extravagant enterprises. The Night-Cellar XVIII. You wish another name? Eh bien. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet.
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