“Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. She was dressed as a white woman should be; and that for the present satisfied her instincts. “If it will keep you busy,” he said, with a faintly ironical smile. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. 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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