” Annabel shook her head. 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. They even threatened to cut the traces and take off the wheels from the carriage. Somehow logic could not explain her. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back.
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