She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. 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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