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The Time Machine - H. G. Wells

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The Time Machine, by H(erbert) G(eorge) Wells [1898]


   The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of
him) was expounding a recondite matter to us.  His grey eyes
shone and twinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed and
animated.  The fire burned brightly, and the soft radiance of the 
incandescent lights in the lilies of silver caught the bubbles
that flashed and passed in our glasses.  Our chairs, being his
patents, embraced and caressed us rather than submitted to be sat
upon, and there was that luxurious after-dinner atmosphere when
thought roams gracefully free of the trammels of precision.  And
he put it to us in this way--marking the points with a lean
forefinger--as we sat and lazily admired his earnestness over
this new paradox (as we thought it:) and his fecundity.

   `You must follow me carefully.  I shall have to controvert one
or two ideas that are almost universally accepted.  The geometry,
for instance, they taught you at school is founded on a

   `Is not that rather a large thing to expect us to begin upon?'
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