’ She eyed him, all her uncertainty surfacing. The evenings were dulcet and soft. Too bad he’s not interested in any girl who’s not a musician. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. She was nestled under his bedspread. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. 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.
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