We were by this time far above the junction of the Missouri River with
the Mississippi--a point traceable by a long line of discolored water
stained with the erosion of the mountains and plains far up the
Missouri. As the boat advanced, hour after hour, finally approaching the
prairie country beyond the Missouri forests, I found little in the
surroundings to occupy my mind; and so far as my communings with myself
were concerned, they offered little satisfaction. A sort of shuddering
self-reproach overcame me. I wondered whether or not I was less coarse,
less a thing polygamous than these crowding Mormons hurrying out to
their sodden temples in the West, because now (since I have volunteered
in these pages to tell the truth regarding one man's heart), I must
admit that in the hours of dusk I found myself dreaming not of my
fiancee back in old Virginia, but of other women seen more recently. As
to the girl of the masked ball, I admitted that she was becoming a
fading memory; but this young girl who had thrust through the crowd and
broken up our proceedings the other day--the girl with the white lawn
gown and the silver gray veil and the tear-stained eyes--in some way, as
I was angrily obliged to admit, her face seemed annoyingly to thrust
itself again into my consciousness.
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