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Wells, H. G. (Herbert George), 1866-1946

"Tono Bungay"

This dark wild place.... We're dead. Or
all the world is dead. No! We're dead. No one can see us. We're shadows.
We've got out of our positions, out of our bodies--and together. That's
the good thing of it--together. But that's why the world can't see us
and why we hardly see the world. Sssh! Is it all right?"
"It's all right," I said.
We stumbled along for a time in a close silence. We passed a dim-lit,
rain-veiled window.
"The silly world," she said, "the silly world! It eats and sleeps.
If the wet didn't patter so from the trees we'd hear it snoring. It's
dreaming such stupid things--stupid judgments. It doesn't know we are
passing, we two--free of it--clear of it. You and I!"
We pressed against each other reassuringly.
"I'm glad we're dead," she whispered. "I'm glad we're dead. I was tired
of it, dear. I was so tired of it, dear, and so entangled."
She stopped abruptly.
We splashed through a string of puddles. I began to remember things I
had meant to say.
"Look here!" I cried. "I want to help you beyond measure.


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