Solomon Smith seemed to be Mr. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. I’ll mention it. She addressed Anna with a beaming smile and a very creditable mixture of condescension and officiousness. "O, Lord!" ejaculated Wood. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard.
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