‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. The entire place was a masterpiece of wooden carving, a design of interleaving carried throughout. 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. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture.
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