To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. He sat up in his chair again, the colour came back to his cheeks. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. Life is two things, that’s how I see it; two things mixed and muddled up together.
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