"On my soul, yes," rejoined Jonathan. 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. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. Mr. Lucy sighed. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. ” His voice conveyed studied moderation.
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