She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. 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. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled. And I guessed you would attack if I startled you.
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