Another picture slid across her vision. “Lucy Albert, sir. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. The door to the library burst open. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. “Lucy, you. 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. I once saw a man die after collapsing that way.
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