Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. 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 feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. She had set out to get a beautiful life, a free, untrammelled life, self-development, without counting the cost either for herself or others. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement.
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