Even Gershom, even the unspeakable Gershom, had had discernment enough to see that something good in that poor woman had been blighted and crushed.

Was it true that no one was ever given the chance to be one's best?
Was this true, not only of that dying woman, but of her father and Stephen and Corinna and herself and all human beings everywhere?
Lingering a moment near the Washington monument, she stood watching the straggling groups that were crossing the Square.

Bit by bit, snatches of conversation drifted into her mind and then blew out again, leaving scarcely the shadow of an impression.

"They tell me it's going up.

I don't know, but I'll find out to-morrow." "I wouldn't wear one of those things for a million dollars, and he says--" "Yes, I've arranged to go unless the strike should be called next week." The strike?
Oh, she had almost forgotten it! She had almost forgotten the message she had promised to deliver to her father.