At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. 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. She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise and fly. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent.
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