Michael Malone - Weebly

last had become first. How should she put it? She, a
stylish forerunner of the first four hundred, had been left
in the dust by a Clydesdale mare.
That's how she should put it. Who should she put it
to? Certainly not Tracy. Tracy had made her choice
and chosen Beanie, who had never even heard of Main
Street as a girl, much less identified with its heroine (as
had Mrs. Ransom and Mrs. Canopy). Why in h., then,
was it Beanie who had eloped with a younger man to
make her bed among bohemian artists in Greenwich
Village? Why in h., then, was it Priscilla Hancock who
couldn't even insist on a weekend alone with her g.d.
mother in Newport, Rhode Island, where all she would
do anyhow would be to play bridge with seventy-yearold
widows whose rings hung loosely from their thinning
fingers? If someone was God now, which she doubted,
it was probably Voltaire. She needed to talk with
Walter Saar. Wasn't he, after all, the mate of her mind,
the man whose company she most preferred in all
Dingley Falls?
Even if he was (and he was—at least she was
modern enough to have noticed) a homosexual. Yes,