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Updated: July 16, 2025
"'No chance of that, returned the former. 'Misers never do. The love of money has less in it to cure itself than any other wickedness into which wretched men can fall. What a mercy it is to be born a Shadow! Wickedness does not stick to us. What do we care for gold! Rubbish! "'Amen! Amen! Amen! came from a hundred shadow-voices.
"He might repent," suggested another who was more benevolent. "No chance of that," returned the former. "Misers never do. The love of money has less in it to cure itself than any other wickedness into which wretched men can fall. What a mercy it is to be born a Shadow! Wickedness does not stick to us. What do we care for gold! Rubbish!" "Amen! Amen! Amen!" came from a hundred shadow-voices.
She was fascinated, listening again to those shadow-voices that were always precursory of death the fatal Whispers. It was February not the foggy, muddy February of dear, damp Old England, but winter beside the bright blue Mediterranean, the winter of the Cote d'Azur.
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