“I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. Come to take leave. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. Looking for something, or someone, probably. 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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