“It is not possible,” he exclaimed. " "Two can play at that game, my blood," replied Sheppard, rising, and putting himself into a posture of defence. 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. "Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my friend again. Enough's as good as a feast of the dainties you provide. " With this assurance, and at the reiterated request of Thames, the little girl reluctantly withdrew.
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