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She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. Anyhow he confessed that he was a fraud. But a man’s opposition always inclined her to the suffrage side; she had a curious feeling of loyalty in seeing the more aggressive women through. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously. It had been a very long time.
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