Fate had reserved for him the
final insult of riding him down under the wheels of one of those
juggernauts at which he had once shouted "Git a hoss!" Nevertheless,
Fate's ironic choice for Georgie's undoing was not a big and swift and
momentous car, such as Eugene manufactured; it was a specimen of the
hustling little type that was flooding the country, the cheapest,
commonest, hardiest little car ever made.
The accident took place upon a Sunday morning, on a downtown crossing,
with the streets almost empty, and no reason in the world for such a
thing to happen. He had gone out for his Sunday morning walk, and he
was thinking of an automobile at the very moment when the little car
struck him; he was thinking of a shiny landaulet and a charming figure
stepping into it, and of the quick gesture of a white glove toward the
chauffeur, motioning him to go on. George heard a shout but did not
look up, for he could not imagine anybody's shouting at him, and he
was too engrossed in the question "Was it Lucy?" He could not decide,
and his lack of decision in this matter probably superinduced a lack
of decision in another, more pressingly vital.
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