in--on some hidden spool of the car's mysterious mechanism.
Clickety-Click-Click-Clack,--faster than any human mind could
think,--faster than any human hand could finger,--hurtling up hazardous
hills of thought,--sliding down facile valleys of fancy,--roaring with
emphasis,--shrieking with punctuation,--the great car yielded itself
perforce to Fate's dictation.

Robbed successively of the city's humanitarian pang, of the suburb's
esthetic pleasure, the White Linen Nurse found herself precipitated
suddenly into a mere blur of sight, a mere chaos of sound. In whizzing
speed and crashing breeze,--houses--fences--meadows--people--slapped
across her eyeballs like pictures on a fan. On and on and on through
kaleidoscopic yellows and rushing grays the great car sped, a purely
mechanical factor in a purely mechanical landscape.

Rigid with concentration the Senior Surgeon stared like a dead man into
the intrepid, on-coming road.

Intermittently from her green, plushy laprobes the little crippled girl
struggled to her feet, and sprawling clumsily across whose-ever shoulder
suited her best, raised a brazenly innocent voice, deliberately flatted,
in a shrill and maddeningly repetitive chant of her own making, to the
effect that

All the birds were there
With yellow feathers instead of hair,
And bumble bees crocheted in the trees--
And bumble bees crocheted in the trees--
And all the birds were there--
And--And--