‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Gerald in a low tone. 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. I had no idea even that she was a friend of yours. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. I almost wish we hadn't come.
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