his leggings gaping, and one tunic button hung by a thread.
“I wouldn’t particularly want to be dictator over an Aras, but I most particularly do not want him and his like to be dictators over me, whether they call them Fascists or Corpos or Communists or Monarchists or Free Democratic Electors or anything else! If that makes me a reactionary kulak, all right! I don’t believe I ever really liked the shiftless brethren, for all my lying hand-shaking. Do you think the Lord calls on us to love the cowbirds as much as the swallows? I don’t! Oh, I know; Aras has had a hard time: mortgage and seven kids. But Cousin Henry Veeder and Dan Wilgus — yes, and Pete Vutong, the Canuck, that lives right across the road from Aras and has just exactly the same kind of land — they were all born poor, and they’ve lived decently enough. They can wash their ears and their door sills, at least. I’m cursed if I’m going to give up the American–Wesleyan doctrine of Free Will and of Will to Accomplishment entirely, even if it does get me read out of the Liberal Communion!”
Aras had peeped into the courtroom, and he stood giggling.
Then Lorinda came out — after midnight!
Her partner, the wart Nipper, was following her, looking sheepishly triumphant.
“Linda! Linda!” called Doremus, his hands out, ignoring the snickers of the curious guards, trying to move toward her. Aras pushed him back and at Lorinda sneered, “Go on — move on, there!” and she moved. She seemed twisted and rusty as Doremus would have thought her bright steeliness could never have been.
Aras cackled, “Haa, haa, haa! Your friend, Sister Pike —”
