She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade. If I did not love you en désespoir, I would assuredly blow off your head. 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. “Where is she?” He would yell even louder until she was sure that people in faraway fishing boats could probably hear him. " "All right. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him.
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