But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. 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. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection.
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