"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. ‘You’ve cause to be grateful to Gerald, then. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams. I kicked the living shit out of him. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. "I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled.
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