With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. We aren’t afraid; we don’t bother. 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. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding.
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