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Updated: June 23, 2025
He remembered now Aleta's mention of a love affair that turned out badly. Aleta had gone down to hearten her friend from these dolors. And he recalled, with a desperate, tearing remorse, a casual-enough remark of Norah's: "You always cheer me up, Frank, when you come to see me." He recalled, as well, her comment, months before, that she would awake from her dream in one way or another.
We feed on novelty and are easily wearied. That's why so many have back-slid who were strong for the Prosecution at first." "Yes, you're right," answered Frank. "We alternate between spasms of Virtue and comfortable inertias of Don't-care-a-Damn! That's San Francisco!" "The Good Gray City," he added after a little silence. "We love it in spite of its faults and upheavals, don't we, Aleta?"
"This morning ... I think, if Norah had left anything in the bottle ... I'd have taken it, too." "Why did she do it?" Frank asked quickly. Aleta faced him. "Norah loved a man ... he wasn't worthy. She could see no hope. I wished, Frank, that you might have been there yesterday. You used to cheer her so!" "Don't!" he cried out sharply. The Exposition progressed marvelously.
"Burns and Heney must be putting on the screws," commented Frank. "Frank," Aleta laid a hand impulsively upon his arm, "I don't suppose there's any way to save this man ... I oh, Frank, it would be awful if he went to prison." He stared at her. "What do you mean, Aleta?" "I mean," she answered, "that he's done things for me ... because he loves me ... hopes to win me.
It was believed that he would deliver his party's nomination to Taylor and Langdon. But he astonished San Francisco voters by becoming a candidate for mayor. Aleta had returned from Camp Curry. There was a certain quiet in her eyes, a greater self-control, a better facing of Life's problems. They spoke of Kant and his philosophy. "The Nightmare is less turbulent," she said.
Frank grew to enjoy her; look forward to the nightly fifteen minutes of companionship. They never met anywhere else. But when an illness held Aleta absent for a week the Dusty Doughnut seemed a lonesome place. Bertha twitted Frank upon his absent-mindedness one evening as he dined with her. By an effort he shook off his vagary of the other girl. He loved Bertha.
"Oh, Ruef's too smart for Langdon," said Aleta. "Every Sunday night he, Schmitz and Big Jim Gallagher hold a caucus. Gallagher is Ruef's representative on the Board. They figure out what will occur at Monday's session of the Supervisors. It's all cut and dried." "It can't last long," Frank mused. "They're getting too much money.
Frank heard that Ruef was to be tried on one of the three hundred odd indictments found against him. Schmitz had been sentenced to five years in San Quentin. He had appealed. Several times Frank tried to reach Aleta on the telephone. But she did not respond to calls, a fact which he attributed to disorganized service. But presently there came a letter from Camp Curry in the Yosemite Valley.
Frank jumped from the moving car and elbowed his way forward. Frank discussed the situation with Aleta one evening after Ruef's capture. Her friend, the Supervisor, had brought news of the alarm. "He says no one of them will trust the other; they're afraid of Gallagher; think he'll turn State's evidence, or whatever you call it. 'Squeal, was what he said."
What a dear girl Aleta was! And he had not thought of her till all else failed him. Soon the coffee was steaming in two little Dresden cups, one minus a handle. There was a plateful of crackers, buttered and toasted, a bit of Swiss cheese. Frank had never tasted anything so marvelous. "Where were you going?" he asked, finally. "To the park ... the panhandle ... everybody's going there."
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