“Now, Veronica,” he pleaded, “Veronica, this is most unreasonable. I’m not a lovesick boy. There’s no family uniting instinct, anyhow; it’s habit and sentiment and material convenience hold families together after adolescence. Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher. How perfectly charming. But at the word “home” she turned again.
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