This diversified group,
together with much revolutionary literature, poems, pamphlets, the works
of Proudhon, Songs Before Sunrise, by Swinburne, and a beautiful etching
of Makart's proletarian Christ, completed, with an old square
pianoforte, the ensemble of an individual room, a room that expressed,
as her admirers said, the strong, suffering soul of Yetta Silverman,
Russian anarchist, agitator, and exile.
"Come in," she cried out in her sharp, though not unpleasant, voice. A
thin young man entered. She clapped her hands.
"Oh, so you changed your mind!" He looked at her over his glasses with
his weak, blue eyes, the white of which predominated. Simply dressed, he
nevertheless gave the impression of superior social station. He was of
the New England theological-seminary type--narrow-chested, gaunt as to
visage, by temperament drawn to theology, or, in default of religious
belief, an ardent enthusiast in sociology. The contracted temples,
uncertain gaze, and absence of fulness beneath the eyes betrayed the
unimaginative man. Art was a sealed book to him, though taxation fairly
fired his suspicious soul.
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