And he wondered
if there had been a tumultuous youth behind the quiet of his
maturity. He compared the even course of Clayton's days, his work,
his club, the immaculate orderliness of his life, with his own
disordered existence.
He was hedged about with women. Wherever he turned, they obtruded
themselves. He made plans and women brushed them aside. He tried
to live his life, and women stepped in and lived it for him. His
mother, Marion, Anna Klein. Even Delight, with her friendship
always overclouded with disapproval. Wherever he turned, a woman
stood in the way. Yet he could not do without them. He needed
them even while he resented them.
Then, gradually, into his self-engrossment there penetrated a
conviction that all was not well between his father and his mother.
He had always taken them for granted much as he did the house and
the servants. In his brief vacations during his college days they
had agreed or disagreed, amicably enough. He had considered, in
those days, that life was a very simple thing.
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