And she would have learned, I am sure. She couldn't help seeing
it. But now that damned fool who knows no more of real manhood than I
do of his profession has spoiled it all."
"But Phil, I don't understand. What has Parkhill to do with Reid's
selling out?"
"Why, don't you see?" Phil returned savagely. "He's the supreme
representative of the highest highbrowed culture, isn't he? He's a lord
high admiral, duke, or potentate of some sort, in the world of loftiest
thought, isn't he? He lives, moves and has his being in the lofty realms
of the purely spiritual, doesn't he? He's cultured, and cultivated, and
spiritualized, until he vibrates nothing but pure soul--whatever that
means--and he's refined himself, and mental-disciplined himself, and
soul-dominated himself, until there's not an ounce of red blood left in
his carcass. Get him between you and the sun, after what he calls a
dinner, and you can see every material mouthful that he, has disgraced
himself by swallowing. He's not human, I tell you; he's only a kind of a
he-ghost, and ought to be fed on sterilized moonbeams and pasteurized
starlight."
"Amen!" said Patches solemnly, when Phil paused for lack of breath.
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