CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
SEPTEMBER 1872
The summer had worn me down to my bones, sucking out the marrow of my iron will and ambition until I resembled the woman who had announced her candidacy two years before as much as winnowed grain resembles the tender shoots of spring.
Though finally recovered from my mysterious illness, I had no desire to attend the National Convention of American Spiritualists in Boston. But as their president, it was my duty.
On the second night of the convention, I mounted the stairs to the stage with growing resignation. No one knew this was to be my final speech to my beloved supporters, as I intended to step down as the group’s president. It would be a simple speech expressing my gratitude for their unwavering dedication and pledging my support to the group for
