There was something exquisitely piquant in her choice of words, in her expressionless voice.

I seemed to be listening to a phonograph reciting a technical work.

There was a touch of the incongruous, of the mad, that appealed to me--the commonplace rolling-down landscape, the straight, white, undulating road that, from the tops of rises, one saw running for miles and miles, straight, straight, and so white.

Filtering down through the great blue of the sky came the thrilling of innumerable skylarks.

And I was listening to a parody of a scientific work recited by a phonograph.
I heard the nature of the Fourth Dimension--heard that it was an inhabited plane--invisible to our eyes, but omnipresent; heard that I had seen it when Bell Harry had reeled before my eyes.