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. You'd not know what to do without me, and shan't drive me off. "Though you lorded it over that fond fool, Mrs. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. They’ll face facts as facts, and understand.
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