In the shadows at the further side of the hall the black coats of the
workers made a blot out of which intense faces looked and across which
the flickering gas jets in the centre of the hall threw dancing
lights.
The words of the speaker were shot forth. The sentences seemed broken
and disconnected. As he talked giant pictures flashed through the
minds of the hearers. Men felt themselves big and exalted. A little
steel worker sitting near Margaret, who earlier in the evening had
been abused by his wife because he wanted to come to the meeting
instead of helping with the dishes at home, stared fiercely about. He
thought he would like to fight hand in hand with a wild animal in a
forest.
Standing on the narrow stage McGregor seemed a giant seeking
expression. His mouth worked, the sweat stood upon his forehead and he
moved restlessly up and down. At times, with his hands advanced and
with the eager forward crouch of his body, he was like a wrestler
waiting to grapple with an opponent.
Margaret was deeply moved. Her years of training and of refinement
were stripped off and she felt that, like the women of the French
Revolution, she would like to go out into the streets and march
screaming and fighting in feminine rage for the things of this man's
mind.
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