You foolish girl!” Ann Veronica took that in silence. Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. 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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