Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her 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. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen.
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