"I wish she would hurry."
"Nor do you."
"No, I don't think so."
"I doubt if the police do either."
"After jailing him!"
Jones, who had been taking in the room, the piano, the portrait, the table, sketched a gesture.
"We are all in jail. The opinion of the world is a prison, our own ideas are another. We are doubly jailed, and very justly. We are depraved animals. We think, or think we think, and what we think others have thought for us and, as a rule, erroneously."
From a phonograph somewhere, in some adjacent den, there floated a tenor aria, the Bella figlia del amore, pierced suddenly and beautifully by a contralto's rich voice.
Jones turned. "That's Caruso. I don't know who the Maddelena is. Do you remember Campanini?"
"Yes, I remember him. He was a better actor than Caruso."