Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. 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. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. ‘She would not tell me. You must let me take you to things—to meetings and things, to conferences and talks. ‘I haven’t been so much entertained since I left the Army.
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