“He is not a detective! Look what he is doing to me!”
A big fist plunges into the man’s face. He gasps, and falls. When he rises, a shower of fists meets him. Many of the erstwhile indifferent figures are now up, eager to lay a hand on the imposter. Like a toy, he falls and rises, looking astonished, in a trance.
The long-awaited car suddenly plunges into the imbroglio. Men, women, children, push and justle at the narrow entrance.
The man stands alone, hatless, wiping a bleeding face with his sleeve, muttering faintly:
“I am a detective.... I am.”
The night rolls on indifferently.
The soul of music is something more than the soul of humanity expressing itself in melody, and the life of music something more than an audible dramatization of human life.—Arthur Symons.
The Truth
Burt Harris
The truth, my friend? There is no truth. It is impossible for the human mind to attain the truth. You can tell the truth with reservations, with omissions. Perhaps you can speak the truth that is only part truth. Yes, that is often done by virtuous people and by clever people. But to speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, to place your soul naked before either God or man,—that, my friend, is impossible. I have listened to women lie. Sometimes it is only necessary to watch. And it is the same with a man.