The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. Could she hold him and manage the reins? If only Gerald had not gone. Yet there was nothing for her to do. “What have you been doing since our last talk? Still cutting up rabbits and probing into things? I’ve often thought of that talk of ours—often. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival.
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