At Morningside Park I feel as though all my growing up was presently to stop, as though I was being shut in from the light of life, and, as they say in botany, etiolated. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. There was a wild light in her eye, and her straight hair was out demonstrating and suffragetting upon some independent notions of its own. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself.
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