“Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. ” “And yet,” he murmured, “one of the greatest of our writers has declared that the true spirit of Bohemianism is denied to your sex. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. That paper must be signed, or I take my departure. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. It was time to leave America. I'll take them back with me.
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