You could head a blood revolution in South America that would outrage the world; or devise a hellish philosophy of hedonism that by its very ingenuity would seduce a continent into barking after false gods.

You've an inexplicable chemistry of ungovernable passions and wild whims and you may go through hell first but when the final test comes--you'll ring true.

Mark that, old man, you'll ring true.

I tell you I _know_! There's sanity and will and grit to balance the rest." Well, Philip Poynter was a staunch optimist with oppressive ideals, a splendid, free-handed fellow with brains and will and infernal persistence.
Four o'clock and the log dying! The city outside was a dark, clinking world of milkmen and doubtful stragglers, Carl finished the whiskey in his glass and rose.

His brain was very drunk--that he knew--for every life current in his body swept dizzily to his forehead, focusing there into whirling inferno, but his legs he could always trust.