“What was that?” she asked sharply. For so far she had kept it uncashed. 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. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one. No doubt— because he did not understand you—he thought you had run away with someone.
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