. “I thought that I heard a groan,” Anna whispered. She could not help thinking of Capes. The swelling in his limbs had also subsided. 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 had gained respect all about town with news of her fine marriage, and her reputation as a beauty was expanding.
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