I always told you some accident would happen. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. Our land brings us in nothing. Mr. John. 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. Manning,” she began.
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