With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. . I was—I was a corespondent. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. 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. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it.
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