"Here we are," he said, "not a week from London, and you see the
sort of life that men live when the forces of civilization fail. We
have been close to two murders--"
"Two?"
"That little crowd in the square at Scutari-- That was a murder. I
didn't tell you at the time."
"But I knew it was," said Amanda.
"And you see the filth of it all, the toiling discomfort of it all.
There is scarcely a house here in all the land that is not filthier
and viler than the worst slum in London. No man ventures far from
his village without arms, everywhere there is fear. The hills are
impassable because of the shepherd's dogs. Over those hills a
little while ago a stranger was torn to pieces by dogs--and
partially eaten. Amanda, these dogs madden me. I shall let fly at
the beasts. The infernal indignity of it! But that is by the way.
You see how all this magnificent country lies waste with nothing but
this crawling, ugly mockery of human life."
"They sing," said Amanda.
"Yes," said Benham and reflected, "they do sing. I suppose singing
is the last thing left to men.
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