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. ‘If it is that your men there are going to arrest us, then why do they not do so?’ ‘Left to myself, I’d let them,’ he replied grimly. She gave her a wink when John had turned to ask Mark if Lucy could ride home with them. “Hello, Gwen!” said Ann Veronica, trying to put every one at their ease. But I expect him back every minute.
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