She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. “Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string. She drew it out with shaking fingers.
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