She feasted reluctantly, partly out of wonder at the new function of her often elongated canines. 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. His technique had gained much subtlety over the years. He found Abraham on guard as he had left him. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. Having traced the footsteps to the wall, and perceiving no outlet, Blueskin elevated the lamp, and discovered marks of bloody fingers on the boards. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. ” “You and your father?” Lucy asked. "Nothing—nothing," she answered, bursting into tears. But pathologically, he is still on the edge. You have misunderstood. I spent many happy days there.
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