Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. Emile’s fist crashed into her temple and stars exploded in her vision. He was amused. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. But the people among whom she was now thrown through the social exertions of Miss Miniver and the Widgetts—for Teddy and Hetty came up from Morningside Park and took her to an eighteen-penny dinner in Soho and introduced her to some art students, who were also Socialists, and so opened the way to an evening of meandering talk in a studio—carried with them like an atmosphere this implication, not only that the world was in some stupid and even obvious way WRONG, with which indeed she was quite prepared to agree, but that it needed only a few pioneers to behave as such and be thoroughly and indiscriminately “advanced,” for the new order to achieve itself.
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