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. She was finally dead, going to Hell. Then, naturally, I went on talking. That is what marriage is to most young women: the ultimate escape from the family, from the unwritten laws that govern children. “Maybe someday I can look them up again, just to see how they are doing. “You are mistaken, David.
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