Lines H.P. Lovecraft Never Meant to Write

Searchers after whores haunt strange, far places.

Unhappy is she to whom the memories of maidenhood bring only fear and sadness.

But by God, Eliot, it was a phonograph from life.

Lust is a hideous thing, and from the background behind which we know of peer demonical hints of truth which make it sometimes a thousand fold more hideous.