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408 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1955
The daughter looked more like the mother. If it had been possible to re-create a younger and prettier version of the mother, and place her at graveside, she would have been the daughter. The daughter’s looks were a refinement of the mother’s, a refinement and a softening, so that the mouth, in the daughter, became inviting, the eyes were lively, the teeth were for whitening the smile. The daughter was smaller than the mother and, beside her, dainty. It was a commonplace comment in Gibbsville: “How can Ann look so much like her mother and still be pretty?” Ann was remarkable, too, for something else: she was the only person at the funeral who was weeping.
“She has herself, and she’s been having herself for years and years. The one person she cared about. Made plans for. Regulated our lives for. You think of her as the dutiful, retiring wife of J. B. Chapin Senior? Some day I’ll tell you a thing or two about that. Do you know why the biggest day in Joseph B. Chapin’s life was his funeral? With all those big shots and so forth? Because she, his dutiful, retiring wife, kept him from being anything but what he ended up as. You don’t like her because she interfered with your life, and you saw her interfering with mine.”
“And you know he’s so gosh-darn respectable. And I like Joe.”
“Well, why shouldn’t you? I do too. He’s never done anything, good or bad, that I can see. Everything he is or has, he inherited. His good looks, his money, his name. The one thing he didn’t inherit I consider a handicap, but maybe that’s because I can hardly look at her, she’s that ugly.”
“That’s the trouble with your notions. You deceive yourself.”
“Sometimes it’s better to deceive yourself.”