"Who's there?" cried Rachel. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. 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. “You have forgotten. ‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald.
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