“He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. It’s no good. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. That's the only fault I know of. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. I give myself to you. Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. ’ He frowned again.
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