"The Wart, facing into the wind, felt that he was uncreated. Except for the wet solidity under his webbed feet, he was living in nothing - a solid nothing, like chaos. His were the feelings of a point in geometry, existing mysteriously on the shortest distance between two points: or of a line, drawn on a plane surface which had length, breadth, but no magnitude. No magnitude! It was the very self of magnitude. It was power, force, direction, a pulseless world-stream steady in limbo."
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