” “But do you really think men’s minds are altered by the food they eat?” “I know it,” said Miss Miniver. “He wants me to have dinner at his parent’s house tonight,” still looking at a series of spots on the carpeting. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. 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. Farewell. The old lady’s face was stiff with anger.
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