Hilary Dallison answered:

"My dear, we have had the same state of affairs since the beginning of
the world. There is no chemical process; so far as my knowledge goes,
that does not make waste products. What your grandfather calls our
'shadows' are the waste products of the social process. That there is a
submerged tenth is as certain as that there is an emerged fiftieth like
ourselves; exactly who they are and how they come, whether they can ever
be improved away, is, I think, as uncertain as anything can be."

The figure of the girl seated in the big armchair did not stir. Her lips
pouted contemptuously, a frown wrinkled her forehead.

"Martin says that a thing is only impossible when we think it so."

"Faith and the mountain, I'm afraid."

Thyme's foot shot forth; it nearly came into contact with Miranda, the
little bulldog.

"Oh, duckie!"

But the little moonlight bulldog backed away.

"I hate these slums, uncle; they're so disgusting!"

Hilary leaned his face on his thin hand; it was his characteristic
attitude.

"They are hateful, disgusting, and heartrending. That does not make the