“I was sick of the make-believe. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. “You can look as innocent and shocked as you please. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. 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. I should like to have had you forgive me. As far as I recollect, there were two. On the walls were noticeboards bearing clusters of newspaper slips, three or four big posters of monster meetings, one of which Ann Veronica had attended with Miss Miniver, and a series of announcements in purple copying-ink, and in one corner was a pile of banners. “I murder people, John.
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