Besides, he was a Yale man. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out. She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves. 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. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. What ho! lights! lights!" And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs.
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