“Anna,” he said, “you make it all indescribably hard for me. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. That was what she was trying to make him understand. 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 lost it in the Mint. She could not bear the shame of it.
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