One might imagine a sort of allegorical picture of Minnie’s progress. There would be Minnie, in her triumphal chariot, dressed in modern garments for the reason that her rather short and matronly form would in no wise be suited by any classic costume; she would be standing upright, her expression anxious but resolute, driving with careful skill the twin steeds which had carried her so well—Sex and Wilfulness, the latter with a single eye. Before her walk slowly the victims dedicated to sacrifice on her altar, Sandra and little Robert. Their poor little faces bear the shadow of their destiny. Behind her walk Frances, erect as ever, but incurably wounded—the woman robbed of her one love,—and Mr. Petersen, the honest man despoiled of his good repute. And tied to the car itself, dragged stumbling in her wake, stripped to the scornful gaze of the populace, ruined, broken, is Lionel, fastidious ruler of a tiny kingdom forever lost to him, shorn of all his pride and prestige, most pitiable of all her victims.
And she never glances back; her gaze is steadfastly forward, toward the future, where her children will surely suffer and die. She never looks to one side or the other, sees nothing of what she passes, neither the black valleys where lie bleaching bones, or the windy hill tops, bright and beautiful. Never hears a friendly hail or a warning cry, or a call for help.
In fact, I think that when at last she comes to the end of her journey, she will not know at all where she has been.