"Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. 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. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened.
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