The Time Machine
120 pages / pdf / file 2 mb
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 misconception.’
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