The next morning Hester carried about what she called "a head," and,
since it was Wheeler's day at Rosencranz, remained in bed until three
o'clock, Kitty curled at the foot of it the greater part of the
forenoon.
"It was the rotten night did me up. Dreams! Ugh! dreams!"
"No wonder," diagnosed Kitty, sweetly. "Indigestion from having your
cake and eating it."
At three she dressed and called for her car, driving down to the Ivy
Funeral Rooms, a Gothic Thanatopsis, set, with one of those laughs up
her sleeves in which the vertical city so loves to indulge, right in
the heart of the town, between an automobile-accessory shop and a
quick-lunch room. Gerald had been buried from there with simple
flag-draped service in the Gothic chapel that was protected from the
view and roar of the Elevated trains by suitably stained windows. There
was a check in Hester's purse made out for an amount that corresponded
to the statement she had received from the Ivy Funeral Rooms. And right
here again, for the sake of your elucidation, I could wish at least for
the neurologist's chart.
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