
The Ambassadors. Track 7. In the kitty.
What a dour looking old man. It must be the weight of his knowledge of the Soul's petty interior resting on the tired crown of a head as smooth as a grape -- a knowledge which, once told, weighs not one milligram less than it did the moment of first discovery in that well-worn drawing room on Beacon Street, just a dancing step from the shadow of the building privileged enough to be New England's first golden-domed house of governance; a privilege (that of it's being the first) which affords it only the honor of its being the first, also, to begin the languorous process of decay.