" "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. It was locked. The thought of going back!—the thought of the unknown out there!—" with a tragic gesture toward the east. After we have got the Vote and are recognized as citizens, then we can come to all these other things. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart.
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