For nearly an hour I walked the floor and tossed over the morning
papers, and then came the answer to my message. It was this: "Brownson.
He is dead."
There is a quality in the air of Washington which is always delightful
to me, but I think it has never affected me as it did that morning. As I
breathed it, it exhilarated me; it cheered and elated me; it rose-tinted
my emotions; it gave me an appetite for my breakfast; it made me feel
ready for any enterprise.
As soon as I thought it proper to make a morning call I went to number
906 Alaska Avenue. There I found a large and handsome house, of that
independent and highly commendable style of architecture which
characterizes many of the houses of Washington. I had not yet made up my
mind whether I should inquire for Mother Anastasia or "Miss Raynor." I
did not know the custom of Mother Superiors when traveling or visiting,
and I determined, as I ascended the steps, to be guided in this matter
by the aspect of the person who opened the door.
It has always been interesting to me to study the character, as well as
I can do so in the brief opportunity generally afforded, of the servants
who open to me the doors of houses. To a certain degree, although of
course it does not do to apply this rule too rigidly, these persons
indicate the characters of the dwellers in the house.
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