” Chapter XXXII SIX MONTHS AFTER Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes. The terror faded from her eyes. He did not even reply to her for several minutes. “Freedom! Citizenship! And the way to that—the way to everything—is the Vote. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her.
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