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But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. 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. But to go courting a slave-girl, at the risk of physical hurt! A shudder of distaste wrinkled her shoulders. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. As time went on, she began to think Martha had been mistaken.
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