And then the grotesque caravan of the
Azoic motor age, with its flapping curtains and ununiformed youth in
visored cap at the wheel.
There is undoubtedly an unsavory aspect to this story. For purpose of
fiction, it is neither fragrant nor easily digested. But it is not so
unsavory as the social scheme which made it possible for those two cars
to pass thus on the road, and, at the same time, Charles G. Wheeler to
remain the unchallenged member of the three lodges, the corporations,
and the Rosencranz church, with a memorial window in his name on the
left side as you enter, and again his name spelled out on a brass plate
at the end of a front pew.
No one but God and Mrs. Wheeler knew what was in her heart. It is
possible that she did not know what the world knew, but hardly. That she
endured it is not admirable, but then there were the three children,
and, besides, she lived in a world that let it go at that. And so she
continued to hold up her head in her rather poor, mute way, rode beside
her husband to funerals, weddings, and to the college Commencement of
their son at Yale.
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