“It is Michelle, John. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. “Your home is very. I have it on my conscience that I offended you—” “Offended me when?” “I’ve been haunted by the memory of you. ’ ‘Oh, have you?’ grunted Gerald, surprising in himself a surge of some odd emotion at these words. 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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