He has no imagination, no real generosity. “Where am I?” he muttered. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. She turned back into the hall. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs.
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