Then he
rose and went to the window again with an expression of utter weariness
such as only an Englishman can put on when he is thoroughly bored. The
snow was falling as thickly as ever, and the turtle-backed horse-cars
crawled by through the drifts, more and more slowly. Ronald turned away
with an impatient ejaculation, and made up his mind that he would go and
see Joe at once. He wrapped himself carefully in a huge ulster overcoat
and went out.
Joe was sitting alone in the drawing-room, curled up in an old-fashioned
arm-chair by the fire, with a book in her lap which she was not reading.
She had asked her aunt for something about politics, and Miss Schenectady
had given her the "Life of Rufus Choate," in two large black volumes. The
book was interesting, but in Joe's mind it was but a step from the
speeches and doings of the great and brilliant lawyer-senator to the
speeches and doings of John Harrington. And so after a while the book
dropped upon her knee and she leaned far back in the chair, her great
brown eyes staring dreamily at the glowing coals.
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