“I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. . “No. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray. . . She meditated profoundly through several enormous cold hours on all that had happened and all that she had done since the swirl of the suffrage movement had submerged her personal affairs.
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