Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. To many in that crowded solitude it came as an extraordinary relief. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. But always this new phase in life which civilization called convention threw up barrier after barrier. 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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