Rich men whose souls are silos from which their lives have long ago been launched squeak as they sink in deep embosoming chairs. How they love their nooks of oak and nineteenth-century light! They do not mind the golden rule, as it is called, not to speak of business here. They do not need to. Even now, out in the screech and lurch this peace obliterates, money, immunity, metastasizes. Attended by brief embodiments, shadows with hands, living whispers, the rich men nod their needs. And when they’ve downed one dusk, they have another.