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. Wood as a play-room to the two boys; and, like most boy's playrooms, it exhibited a total absence of order, or neatness. The tables were then cleared. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth. “For men have reason, women rhyme A man scores always, all the time. She wanted to live. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. Meanwhile, she doesn’t realize she’s pregnant and he’s still after her, day after day. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her.
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