She had thought that all Morningside Park householders came home before seven at the latest, as her father usually did. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. "Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—"too late!—oh!" Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room. 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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