She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. " "Not now—not now!" she returned, with a shudder.
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