Angela was aware of this,
though she had not been able to realize the vastness of the change; and
though she knew that the city was reborn since the epic tragedy which laid
it low, she had expected to find it in a confused turmoil of growing. The
work done in six or seven years by men who loved the City of the Golden
Gate--men who gave blood and fortune for her, as men will for an adored
woman--was almost incredible. "Rome was not built in a day" she had often
heard; but this great town of many hills, so like a Rome of a new world,
seemed to have risen from its ashes by magic.
The place began to take on in her eyes a curious, startling individuality.
She began to think of the city not as a town, but as a person. A woman,
young, lovely, and beloved, who had gone gaily to bed one night to dream
of her lovers, her jewels, and her triumphs. While she lay smiling in her
beauty sleep, this woman had been rudely aroused by a cry of fire and
shouts that warned her to fly. Dazed, she dressed in wildest haste,
putting on all the gorgeous jewels she could find, for fear of losing them
forever, and wrapping herself in exquisite laces. But in her hurry, she
had been obliged to fling on some very queer garments rather than not be
clothed at all; and, losing her head, had contrived to save a few
worthless things.
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