To possess two distinctly alien red corpuscles in one's blood, metaphorically if not in fact, two characters or individualities under one epidermis, is, in most cases, a peculiardisadvantage. One hears of scoundrels and saints striving to consume one another in onebody, angels and harpies; but ofttimes, quite the contrary to being a curse, these twowarring temperaments become a man's ultimate blessing: as in the case of George P. A.Jones, of Mortimer & Jones, the great metropolitan Oriental rug and carpet company, all ofwhich has a dignified, sonorous sound. George was divided within himself. This he wouldnot have confessed even into the trusted if battered ear of the Egyptian Sphynx. There was, however, no demon-angel sparring for points in George's soul. The difficulty might be setforth in this manner: On one side stood inherent common sense; on the other, a boundless, roseate imagination which was likewise inherent-a kind of quixote imagination ofsuitable modern pattern. This alter ego terrified him whenever it raised its strangelybeautiful head and shouldered aside his guardian-angel (for that's what common sense is, argue to what end you will) and pleaded in that luminous rhetoric under the spell of whichour old friend Sancho often fell asleep.
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