"Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. She wanted to go to Cornell University to study Anthropology, that was her 183 dream. “She has improved her style,” someone declared. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. The room in which he was detained—that lately occupied by the Mohocks, who, it appeared, had been allowed to depart,—was calculated to inspire additional apprehension and disgust. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat.
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