There might be logical
causes, buried obscurely under remote events, for everything that had
transpired. He conceded that point. But he could not establish any
association; he could not trace out the chain; and he revolted against
the common assumption that all things, no matter how mysterious, work
out ultimately for some common good.
Where was the good forthcoming out of so much that was evil, he asked?
Looking back over the years, he saw much evil for himself, for
everything and every one he cared about, and mingled with it there was
little good, and that good purely accidental, the result of fortuitous
circumstances. He knew that until the war broke out he had lived in a
backwater of life, himself and Myra, contented, happy, untried by
adversity. Once swung out of that backwater they had been swept away,
powerless to know where they went, to guess what was their
destination.
Nothing that he could have done would have altered one iota the march
of events. Nothing that he could do now would have more than the
slightest bearing on what was still to come.
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