They must settle it between them." "It's all very well to be so infernally polite.

But this sort of thing wakes you up impolitely, and makes you ask impolite questions.

I suppose I've seen men die by dozens--so have you--seen them die as if they enjoyed it, and seen them foaming at the mouth, kicking against death--and I can't say it particularly staggered my belief in my Maker.
But when it comes to the women, somehow it seems more polite not to believe in him than to believe that he does these damnable things on purpose." Stanistreet closed his eyes to shut out the sight of Tyson and his eternal cigar, and the slow monotonous movement of his lips.

His friend's theological views were not exactly the supreme interest of the moment.
"Down there in the desert" (Tyson seemed to dream as he raised his eyes to the great map of the Soudan that hung above the chimney-piece), "where there's no end to the sand and the sky, and man's nothing and woman less than nothing, this curious belief in the infinite seems the natural thing; it simply possesses you.

You know the feeling?
But here it gets crowded out somehow; it's too big for these little houses we've got to live in, and work in, and die in.