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ВикицитатиCHAPTER XI

"Yes, and what of it?" Terrence was demanding, as they came up side by

side. "I defy you, Aaron, I defy you, to get one thought out of Bergson on music that is more lucid than any thought he ever uttered in his

'Philosophy of Laughter,' which is not lucid at all."
"Oh!--listen!" Paula cried, with sparkling eyes. "We have a new

prophet. Hear Mr. Graham. He's worthy of your steel, of both your steel. He agrees with you that music is the refuge from blood and iron and the pounding of the table. That weak souls, and sensitive souls, and high-pitched souls flee from the crassness and the rawness of the world to the drug-dreams of the over-world of rhythm and vibration--"