For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. Why, honestly enouch. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. ” “Then condemn me to Hell. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. Probably something he had eaten.
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