” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. ’ ‘But you must. ’ ‘I’m afraid you are right. By this time, several of the terrified domestics appeared with lights. 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. ” Her heart leaped within her as she caught that phrase. Deuce take it! I was very near spelling my name with one P. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark.
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