It frightened her to behold her heart and mind thus laid bare; but the chapter following would reassure her. "I am your most unhappy son. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Talk to her of the new story; divert her; for this day her heart has been twisted sorely. He wants you—or he doesn’t; and then he helps some other woman against you. 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. Expiation. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. E.
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