ВикицитатиCHAPTER XI

"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--"
"Atavistic!" Aaron Hancock snorted. "The cave-men, the monkey-folk, and

the ancestral bog-men of Terrence did that sort of thing--"