It was a diabolic world that had led them so tremendously astray—they raised their glasses in unison to it and swayed. They could not spend all their money and their savings accrued. They made songs about the city on the hill. They cried at their own songs deep into the night. They were ecstatic in the small hours on dopeblown travels. They succumbed to the tormentations of gowl. They were endlessly a source of maudlin fascination to themselves. They trotted out their stories in these circling and disputatious versions, and always with sombre refrain.
