She looked at her flattened belly. ‘Ah, the tragedy. 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 have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. ‘But there is something still I do not understand. “How can you change people’s ideas if you have no power?” said Kitty Brett.
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