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. But no more of that. That is, until I investigated Iovelli-Alberti in the Fourteenth Century!” They reached a part of the subdivision dubbed “The Treehouse”, a popular hangout for edgy teens who smoked joints in its foundation pits. They were enormously pleased with one another; they found each other beyond measure better than they had expected, if only because of the want of substance in mere expectation. “I wonder what you could do?” he said. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. But think of the disillusionment! Except for our sex we have minds like men, desires like men. ” She said.
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