She stood without motion and without strength. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation. Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped. 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. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. “You did not tell me that you were going out, or I would have offered my escort. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. But before he could say anything, the vehicle rolled to a halt.
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