Wrenn of the Souvenir Company shocked, but by his own
fascinated interest in the frank talk of sex. He had always had
a quite undefined supposition that it was wicked to talk of sex
unless one made a joke of it.
Then came the superradicals, to confuse the radicals who
confused Mr. Wrenn.
For always there is a greater rebellion; and though you
sell your prayer-book to buy Bakunine, and esteem yourself
revolutionary to a point of madness, you shall find one who
calls you reactionary. The scorners came in together--Moe
Tchatzsky, the syndicalist and direct actionist, and Jane
Schott, the writer of impressionistic prose--and they sat
silently sneering on a couch.
Istra rose, nodded at Mr. Wrenn, and departed, despite Olympia's
hospitable shrieks after them of "Oh stay! It's only a little
after ten. Do stay and have something to eat."
Istra shut the door resolutely. The hall was dark. It was
gratefully quiet. She snatched up Mr. Wrenn's hand and held it
to her breast.
"Oh, Mouse dear, I'm so bored! I want some real things.
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