As the palm bears nuts perennially, there were always coconut-laden proas making the beach. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. 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. Ann Veronica found herself in a little stirring crowd of excited women, whispering and tittering and speaking in undertones. Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it. "Let it pass. These realizations rushed into Ann Veronica’s mind and hardened her heart against him.
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