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CHAPTER XXII. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom smitten human ears rent the air. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. . ’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. But I know a little place where we’ll get a little quiet talk. 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. “Yes, I remember you now. You will be under the eye of the best friend I have; and if you do not treat that child for what she is —an innocent angel—I promise to hunt you across the wide world and kill you with bare hands. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone.
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