voice and lash into the pace that kills.
That racecourse lying in the shadow of a grave-yard is a type of California
in her ordinary mood.
The towns and villages on this bay not only teem with life, but life in a most strained and febrile state.
No one is calm.
No man sits down to smoke the pipe of peace; no day seems long enough for the labour to be wrought.
All men and women aim at emphasis.
An actor rants, a preacher roars, a singer screams.
Such talk as suits a London diningroom sounds tame, such colours as beseem a London dancing room look dull.
The pulses of society beat too high for ordinary men and ordinary times.
A storm seems beating overhead, a battle raging in our front.
If we would live, we need to be alert and prompt.
A citizen bolts his dinner, gulps his whisky, puffs his cigarettes, and hurries off, as though he heard a bugle call.
He sits at table with a loaded pistol in his pocket; he fingers his bowie-knife while asking a friend to drink.
Suspicion is a habit of his mind.
If quick to see offence, he is no less quick to bury the offence in blood.
A rian will shoot his brother for a jest.
Here is a case not many days old. A luckless wit described his neighbour in one of the