He glanced at his watch. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. Never mind. \"Some of them don't smell so good. ” “Touch you I mean?” She looked around. “Please hurry. 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.
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