He was nearly wincing. Wild's busy. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. 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. They knew they were all Bogey in disguise. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence.
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