But the people among whom she was now thrown through the social exertions of Miss Miniver and the Widgetts—for Teddy and Hetty came up from Morningside Park and took her to an eighteen-penny dinner in Soho and introduced her to some art students, who were also Socialists, and so opened the way to an evening of meandering talk in a studio—carried with them like an atmosphere this implication, not only that the world was in some stupid and even obvious way WRONG, with which indeed she was quite prepared to agree, but that it needed only a few pioneers to behave as such and be thoroughly and indiscriminately “advanced,” for the new order to achieve itself. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. But, uttering a loud cry, he was swept away by the headlong torrent. She’s obsessed with him, you know, totally obsessed. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram.
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