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. It is a matter of degree. His tone was rough, almost threatening. When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously.
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