. 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. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe. "She is here," cried Jack, darting forward. ” Lord, he was right! But softly now. \" Michelle announced proudly, crossing her arms across her chest jovially, all eyes fixed upon her.
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