part, all indeed but the climax, the conclusion, and the scenes by which these were to be directly approached, are not only in print, but in what amounts to final form. What was to happen in these unwritten chapters her own synopsis—unusually rich in detail and in emotional undercurrent—leaves no manner of doubt". Time magazine also wrote an editorial of the book in 1938. It begins with "Death last year ended Edith Wharton's work on a novel that might have been her masterpiece. She has written 29 chapters of a book apparently planned to run about 35 chapters. The story had reached its climax; the characters were at a moment in their careers when they were compelled to make irrevocable decisions. While Mrs. Wharton left notes suggesting how she intended to end the novel, she gave no hint of how she intended to solve its moral and esthetic problems". Additionally, some critics were defensive of Wharton's last work. Christopher Money referred to those who responded negatively to Wharton's last work as a "low-class lot", and respected her humor towards the upper elite. Money even complimented Wharton's literary executor on his "eloquent, but surely unnecessary apology for the publication of this incomplete novel". Reception for Marion Mainwaring's 1993 complete version The criticism for Mainwaring's 1993 finished novel was harsh. In The New Yorker, John Updike stated, "we have a text that in no typographical way discriminates between her words and Wharton's, and that asks us to accept this bastardization as a single smooth reading unit." In The New Republic, Andrew Delbanco likened Mainwaring's efforts to an act of "literary necrophilia". In a Boston Globe review, Katherine A. Powers wrote that certain sections of The Buccaneers showcased "Wharton at her finest: subtle figures and tropes, eagle-eyed irony and a pathologist's acuity in matters of class and morality. But there are also sketchiness, lacunae, and a central implausibility, this perhaps the reason she never could complete the work... [Mainwaring's additions] were frankly no help. Under her pen, the narrative loses its ironic torque, the Prince of Wales strolls in, and the story, lobotomized and docile, becomes a blueblood infatuated gush." Mainwaring's response to these critics was, "The argument that she was a great writer and how dare I? Well, I don't think she was always a great writer, at least not as great as some. I wouldn't have attempted this with a George