She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. They were hailed as celebrities, the three of them. 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. "No, no!" With a gesture, fierce and intolerant, she seized the Bible and thrust it out of sight, into the drawer. We've got to get him to care.
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