The young man looked at her. 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. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. I don’t think that the rest of the people here like us very well, do they, Arthur, so we’re obliged to be friends. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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