To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. They walked past his old jungle gym set to a hilly park that dwelled sleepily beyond his house. “I have scarcely left his side. 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. All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the bridge.
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