"Did I hear you …" began McClintock. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. 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. “I lied, as I would have committed a murder, or done any evil deed sooner than lose you. Stanley, whose family had been by any reckoning inconsiderable—to use the kindliest term. “Besides, it is not so. But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest.
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