Wood's anxiety to please her distinguished guests speedily displayed itself in a very plentiful, if not very dainty repast. 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. When John’s parents weren’t home, they made love in his bedroom. I’ll be ready in a moment.
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