When the dust in the streets of my spirit needed settling, I would go out to the old section of the Rock Creek Cemetery. There was a semicircular granite bench there, in front of the famous Saint-Gaudens statue over the grave of the wife of Henry Adams. On it sat the life-size figure of a woman, draped in a cowl from head to foot, her chin supported by her right hand as she leans slightly forward, looking directly into the distance. Her countenance is drained of all emotion, her eyes exhausted from tears—she is at once alive and dead. To sit there alone surrounded by the silence, a slight wind
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