He was no doubt doing his best to express the attitude of society toward these wearily heroic defendants, but he seemed to be merely rude and unfair to Ann Veronica. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. Both carried packages of books and magazines. 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. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders.
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