I dimly felt that
there was a sort of refined cruelty in thus excluding a man from the
common lot of the race; men often have pity but seldom love for those
who either from eccentricity or peculiar excellence separate
themselves from the broad, warm current of human life, having no part
in the errors, ideals, and aspirations of their more commonplace
brethren. Even a slight deviation from the physical type of common
manhood and womanhood, as for instance, the possession of a sixth toe
or finger, would in the eyes of the multitude go far toward making a
man morally objectionable. It was, perhaps, because I wished to save
my friend Storm from this unenviable lot that I always contended that
he was yet a promising candidate for matrimony.
Edmund Storm was a Norseman by birth, but had emigrated some five or
six years before I made his acquaintance. Our first meeting was
brought about in rather a singular manner. I had written an article in
one of our leading newspapers, commenting upon the characteristics of
our Scandinavian immigrants and indulging some fine theories, highly
eulogistic of the women of my native land. A few days after the
publication of this article, my pride was seriously shocked by the
receipt of a letter which told me in almost so many words that I was a
conceited fool, with opinions worthy of a bedlam.
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