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. “So long as I am your father, so long as your life is entrusted to my care, I feel bound by every obligation to use my authority to check this odd disposition of yours toward extravagant enterprises. Profligate women are never reclaimed. "That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. ‘Been led up the garden path by that confounded rapscallion. E.
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