She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. Pragmar probably knew Mr. Berserker, Spurlock rose, head down, and charged. She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away. Ruth met him in the hall as he was following his family into the dining room. 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.
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