We put on our coats and went out into the February evening, into the light snow.
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Outside the bar we stood in the snow, not speaking.
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Cabot, still half-drunk, looked about himself, at the brutal electric geometry of that great city, at the dark, lonely shapes that moved through the light snow, at the pale glimmering headlights of the cars.
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"This is a great city," said Cabot, "and yet it is not loved.
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How many are there here who would die for this city? How many who would defend to the death its perimeters? How many who would submit to torture on its behalf?" "You're drunk," I said, smiling.
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"This city is not loved," he said.
It was a hundred-dollar bill.
We put on our coats and went out into the February evening, into the light snow.
Outside the bar we stood in the snow, not speaking.
Cabot, still half-drunk, looked about himself, at the brutal electric geometry of that great city, at the dark, lonely shapes that moved through the light snow, at the pale glimmering headlights of the cars.
"This is a great city," said Cabot, "and yet it is not loved.
How many are there here who would die for this city? How many who would defend to the death its perimeters? How many who would submit to torture on its behalf?" "You're drunk," I said, smiling.
"This city is not loved," he said.
- (Outlaw of Gor, Chapter )