It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. 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. Afterwards we started for a motor ride to a place outside Paris for déjeuner, and I suppose the man’s nerve failed him. "You'd have hit it off better if you'd called her The Sow. I’ve got no feminine class feeling.
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