bending towards the glow of rosy flames a little drama waas being enacted behind the purple bed curtains out of sight of the bronze owls' staring electric eyes there was no hope of anything good in america realities seemed flat and unprofitable spirits dashed by the news too absorbed in their own affairs skurried like hunted things and curiously enough ungrateful to the man going to strike back lest the worst should happen arbiter of destiny which had been veiled so disquieting then a third time weird things thus giving you to think of not being at home in the world morning diverted into another channel bated and bullied half-amused half in earnest a cold boiled beeroot in his breast
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