The State House
loomed darkly against the radiance of the winter sky.
She was still wondering what that blood-stained intruder had meant when he
declaimed about the job waiting on Capitol Hill, and she found disquieting
suggestiveness in the gloom which wrapped the distant State House. Even
the calm in the neighborhood of the Corson mansion troubled her; the scene
of the drama, whatever it was all about, had been shifted; the talk of men
had been of prospective happenings at the State House, and that talk was
ominous. Her father was there. She was fighting an impulse to hasten to
the Capitol and she assured herself that the impulse was wholly concerned
with her father.
"I'll admit that the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts, just as
that poet has said they are," Mrs. Stanton went on, one topic engrossing
her. "But I'm assuming that there's an end to 'em, just as there is to the
much-talked-of long lane. In poems there's a lot of nonsense about
marrying one's own first love--and I suppose the thing is done, sometimes.
Yes, I'm quite sure of it, because it's written up so often in the divorce
cases. If I had married any one of the first five fellows I was engaged
to, probably my own case would have been on record in the newspapers
before this.
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