One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. 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. "How?" cried her brother, starting. " "It ought to be; it cost enough to get it here," said the Scot, ruefully.
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