But it was all nonsense to indulge in any sentiment in a case like this,
where it was not only a right, but a duty which she owed herself and
others in relation with her, to accept what Providence, as it appeared,
had thrust upon her, and when no suffering would be occasioned to
anybody. Common sense told her not to refuse it. So did several of her
rich friends, who remembered about this time that they had not called
upon her for a good while, and among them Mrs. Midas Goldenrod.
Never had that lady's carriage stood before the door of our
boarding-house so long, never had it stopped so often, as since the
revelation which had come from the Registry of Deeds. Mrs. Midas
Goldenrod was not a bad woman, but she loved and hated in too exclusive
and fastidious a way to allow us to consider her as representing the
highest ideal of womanhood. She hated narrow ill-ventilated courts,
where there was nothing to see if one looked out of the window but old
men in dressing-gowns and old women in caps; she hated little dark rooms
with air-tight stoves in them; she hated rusty bombazine gowns and last
year's bonnets; she hated gloves that were not as fresh as new-laid eggs,
and shoes that had grown bulgy and wrinkled in service; she hated common
crockeryware and teaspoons of slight constitution; she hated second
appearances on the dinner-table; she hated coarse napkins and
table-cloths; she hated to ride in the horsecars; she hated to walk
except for short distances, when she was tired of sitting in her
carriage.
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